Almost Forever
by razztaztic
Summary: Written for Chosenname. What if Hannah had said yes?
1. The Proposal

_A few weeks ago, I mentioned in '_Roots and Wings_' that there was a continuity error in that story and if someone figured out what it was, I'd write something based on a prompt of their choosing.' Chosenname' took on the challenge of slogging through all of those chapters, bless her heart, and found my mistake. The first prompts she gave me involved chapters for R&amp;W that I already have planned but just haven't written yet and since that didn't seem quite fair to her, I asked her for another prompt. _

_So she gave me this: "What if Hannah had said yes?" _

_Ouch. And OUCH. With the benefit of hindsight I no longer hate Hannah as much as I did (and definitely not as much as I do certain other stupid fucking characters ::cough::MamaBooth::cough::) but still . . . Ouch. This one is going to hurt before it gets better. _

_It will get better, though, and there will be a happy ending because, hello? Me. The queen of fluff and cotton candy, the one whose stories aren't real because I write about happy people living happy lives and only stories about sadness and tragedy and misery qualify as 'real.' Yes, those remarks still piss me off. Whatever. Anyway, Booth and Brennan are the end game here, as they always have been, as they always will be. I can promise you that we will get to that happy ending but first we're going to let this scenario play out. What if Hannah had said yes?_

_I'm sure there are already stories in the fandom based on this premise and I mean no disrespect to anyone or anything written previously. Since we're all using the same canon as source material, the unintentional duplication of ideas is bound to happen occasionally. _

_Chosenname, this is for you. Thanks for playing along and finding my needle in a haystack. :-) I hope this story is what you hoped it could be. _

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The small velvet box burned in his pocket with enough heat to seep through his clothes and brand the square shape into his bare skin. Despite the cool temperatures of the winter evening, his palms were damp with sweat. His fingers brushed repeatedly against his coat, over the lump beneath the heavy wool, in a nervous gesture he couldn't control.

He was going to do this.

He was ready.

Booth took a deep breath and let it out slowly in an attempt to calm the nerves that were tying his guts into knots. This is normal, he told himself . . . again. A man was supposed to be nervous when he was about to propose.

_You weren't nervous when you proposed to Rebecca._

He brushed aside the tiny, skeptical voice. He hadn't really proposed to Rebecca. The minute she'd said _baby_ he'd just assumed they would get married and then launched into his plans for the future - plans which Rebecca had immediately shot down.

His head turned at the sound of laughter. A group of tourists from the look of them, taking advantage of the clear night to see the monuments under the stars. They left him in relative privacy, stopping several feet away from where he stood at the decorative concrete railing over the reflecting pool. A rapid, repeated tapping caught his attention, coming from the heel of one shoe bouncing up and down against the pavement. He brought the unconscious gesture to a halt and sucked in another gulp of cold air.

That was then and this is now and now will be different. He repeated those words to himself silently. _That was then and this is now and now will be different. This time _will _be different._

"Hey!"

A cheerful feminine voice drew his attention away from the rippling silver reflection of the Washington Monument.

"Hey, soldier." Hannah was smiling, her blue eyes twinkling and flirtatious as she raised her face to meet his kiss. Her arms automatically looped around his neck. "You looking for a good time?"

Booth forced his shoulders to relax beneath her touch.

"Wow," he grinned back. "Look at you!" She was beautiful, as she always was. Her blonde hair hung in long, loose curls that gleamed with moonlight as they fell across the oversize collar of her coat.

She touched her lips to his again. "You didn't answer the question," she teased.

"Well, I . . ." He hesitated briefly. _T__hat was then and this is now._ Ignoring one last hint of doubt, he plunged forward. "I thought I was looking for a good time but you know, the truth is that I . . . I think I'm looking for a little bit more."

Hannah drew back, her smile faltering at the serious tone of his voice. She tried to recapture the earlier light atmosphere with a joke. "Well, don't underestimate a good time!"

Booth barely heard her, so focused was he on getting his own words right that hers didn't register.

"I . . . I was going to . . . I was going to wait but . . ." The velvet box in his pocket began to throb, as if it had a heartbeat of its own. He stuck his hand in his pocket and closed his fingers hard around it. "I love you, Hannah. When I met you, I really wondered if I was ever going to meet anyone again but . . ." His jaw clenched on another thought, of another cold night, and another woman in a white coat.

Hannah gasped when she saw the box. She took a step back, physically separating herself from him.

"Seeley. Oh my God."

Booth heard the shock in her voice and stepped forward, closing the gap she'd just created.

"Marry me," he said baldly. Every random ray of light scattered throughout the area seemed to twinkle off the diamonds inside when he opened the box to reveal the ring. "I want you to be my wife."

"Oh my God," Hannah said again. Her fingers flew up to cover her mouth as tears filled her eyes. "Oh, Seeley. I love you, I really do but . . . I can't. I'm just . . . I'm just not the marrying kind."

"I am." There was an urgency to his words now, a pleading they both heard. "I am. And I want to marry you, Hannah. I do."

She shook her head. One tear escaped. "I . . . I can't . . ."

"Don't say no!" The lid closed with a snap, cutting off the sparkle from the ring when he clutched her shoulders with both hands. "Don't say no," he repeated. "Hear me out first. You . . . you didn't come all this way, back to the States . . . you didn't change jobs just to . . . to . . . to shack up with me, just because we were having a good time. And it's not just because we're good in bed, either. I love you, Hannah. I love you and I want to marry you. I want to build my life with you."

"Seeley." Hannah was staring at him with sad, regret-filled eyes. "I love you, too, I do, but I don't know how to be married. I barely know how to be in a relationship! I can't –"

"I don't either!" he blurted out quickly. "And that's okay, we can figure it out together, right?" He squeezed her shoulders hard. "I love you. Parker loves you! You know, you have the . . . the ice cream thing, and . . . and you went to the zoo and . . ." When his mind blanked, he simply babbled on. "He loves you. Just like I do. We can do this, Hannah. You and me. I can make it work! I promise!"

Their heavy breathing fell into the cold air between them in little puffs of clouds as they stared at each other. Seconds ticked away slowly in silence.

Booth swallowed hard. "Hannah."

Her reluctance was visible. "Seeley . . ."

"Do you love me?" A pulse throbbed in his jaw.

"You know I do—"

"Then say yes," he interrupted. "Say yes. Everything else we can figure out. It's not like we're getting married tomorrow, right? Just . . . just say yes now and . . . and we'll take care of the rest later. Look . . ." Booth opened the box again, took out the ring and reached for her left hand. "All you have to do right now is say yes."

The ring stopped at her knuckle. Hannah gave a watery, hiccup sob of a laugh.

"It's too small."

Booth brushed off the problem immediately. "That's okay, we can get it sized tomorrow. Just say yes. Marry me, Hannah."

Her fingers closed into a fist with the thumb pressing hard on the ill-fitting ring. She searched his eyes intently. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I've never been more sure of anything," Booth insisted gruffly. "It will work for us, Hannah. I promise."

"Alright then." Her smile was tentative but it grew and widened when his did the same. "Yes. Yes, Seeley. I'll marry you."

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_._

_Anyone know if Costco sells big industrial-sized bottles of Pepto-Bismal? I think I'm going to need one or three. _

_Thanks for reading - and I'm sorry for what I'm about to put you through._


	2. Sharing the News

The sound of his climax still hung in the air when Booth rolled away from Hannah. He lay there panting, sweat cooling on his overheated body, one hand over the heartbeat thudding in his chest.

"Wow." He smiled at the ceiling without turning his head. "If that's engaged sex, we might kill each other once we're married."

"But what a way to go, right?" Just as breathless as Booth, Hannah shifted toward him. Before she could curl into his warmth, he threw his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. "Where are you going?"

"To get my phone." He followed the trail of discarded and scattered clothes around the bedroom until he found underwear. "I was a little distracted when we got home and left it in my coat. I need to put it on my dresser so I'll hear it if I get a call tonight."

She let him see her pout. "Just this once can't you turn it off?"

Booth shook his head. "I'm never really off duty. You know that. But I tell you what . . ." He leaned across the bed and gave her a lingering kiss. "I'll keep my fingers crossed that it doesn't ring. How's that?"

"I guess I'll take what I can get."

The somewhat teasing grumble followed him into the living room. Since they'd stumbled their way from the front door to the bedroom locked in a passionate embrace, the room was still dark, lit only by the glow of streetlights and headlights coming in through the window. His coat was easy to find, though, as was the solid rectangle of the phone in the pocket where he'd left it, right next to the velvet ring box. He removed them both.

The phone was cold to the touch, the screen black and empty. A swipe of his finger brought it to life but only the bright numbers of the current time showed. There was no 'message waiting' icon. No missed call.

He stood there, staring at the silent phone while the edges of the small square box cut into the palm of his other hand. A minute passed, and then another.

"Seeley?"

He turned automatically toward the bedroom. Hannah was waiting, blonde hair spread across the pillow, a seductive smile on her face.

"I thought you got lost."

"Not as long as you're here, babe."

If his tone was exuberantly jocular, Hannah noticed nothing amiss. When he got into bed, she slipped beneath one arm and laid her head on his chest. Within minutes, she was asleep.

Booth lay awake for much longer.

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"Why don't you meet me for lunch so we can get your ring sized?" Booth was all smiles the next morning, chuckling at every not-a-morning-person joke Hannah made and peppering her with kisses whenever she was near. "There's a little jewelry repair shop on 10th, I bet they can take care of it while we wait."

Hannah shrugged and picked at the celebratory pancake he'd insisted on making for her, over her protests and stated lack of hunger.

"I don't know what my morning is going to be like. Can you just take one of my other rings and do it yourself?"

The wattage of Booth's smile flickered. "Well . . . we should do it together, shouldn't we? It's part of the fun of being engaged, right? Besides . . ." He rounded the counter and pulled her to her feet. "If they're quick, we can have lunch here - and I know exactly what I'm hungry for." The hands sliding up her ribcage and the nuzzling kisses against her neck provided the only explanation necessary.

Hannah returned his embrace with enthusiasm and then, laughing, pushed him away.

"Okay, okay. You've talked me into it. I'll meet you at, what? Eleven?" She was already gathering up her bag and coat when he nodded. "I'll see you at the repair shop then. Grab the ring, will you?" After a kiss blown off the palm of her hand, she was gone.

"Bye. Love you."

Booth waved half-heartedly at the already closed door, then went back to the kitchen. The refrigerator hummed to life behind him while he scraped her uneaten pancake into the trash.

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Hannah was late but only by a few minutes and full of apologies when she finally arrived. The repair shop could, indeed, size the ring and a short thirty minutes later, they were on their way. Outside, she raised her hand to the sun and admired the bright sparkle of color and light twinkling from the diamonds.

"Wow, this is really gorgeous." She wound her arms around one of his and pressed into his side as they walked down the street. "I'll have to make sure I keep it somewhere safe when I'm not wearing it."

He sent her a puzzled frown. "When you're not wearing it?"

"Well, a ring like this wouldn't exactly be a good idea in some of the places I have to go to for a story. It's better to keep it tucked away, don't you think?"

They crossed at a red light amid a crowd of other pedestrians, their steps aimlessly heading back in the direction of the Hoover Building.

"What I think is that if it's not safe for the ring then it's not safe for you. You're more important than a piece of jewelry."

"Seeley." Her tone held a note of warning. "We've discussed this. It's my job. I don't complain when you're in danger, do I?"

"Hey, I love you." Booth managed to steal a kiss without either one of them breaking stride. "You can't blame me for worrying."

"By all means, worry," Hannah laughed. "But just keep it to yourself. Oh, look!" They'd reached the intersection across from the diner; on the opposite side of the street, two familiar figures were almost at the door. "It's Temperance and Angela! Let's have lunch with them! They can be the first to hear our news!"

Booth's feet turned to lead as Hannah detached herself from him and threw one arm high in the air. Lightning flashed from her ring as she waved.

"Temperance! Temperance!"

_Bones._

Brennan turned, one hand on the door. With a shimmer of blue as bright as sunlight bouncing off diamonds, her eyes met his and then slid away to Hannah.

He'd meant to call her that morning, to casually share the news of his proposal and Hannah's acceptance the same way he would with any other friend. With any other partner. Time and again, he'd put it off. And kept putting it off. Time and again he had found an excuse to wait. Time and again he'd looked at his phone and then set it down. And now it was too late.

When the traffic light changed, Hannah grabbed his hand and tugged him into the crosswalk. He had no choice but to follow.

It was too late.

Angela and Brennan were sitting on the same side of a table for four, leaving the other chairs empty in an obvious invitation.

"Hello." Brennan's smile was easy and welcoming as the other couple approached the table. "This is a nice surprise. Have you had lunch?"

The waitress arriving with coffee forced a break in the conversation, but not for long. Still standing beside the table, Hannah barely waited for the woman to turn away before she stuck her left hand out.

"You're the first to know - look! Seeley proposed!"

It was a small sound, Brennan's gasp. A faint indrawn breath. An instinctive flinch of her abdominal muscles. It was there in one second and gone the next. But sitting beside her, Angela heard it.

And Booth felt it like a punch to the gut. The blood in his veins turned to ice.

"Bones."

He took an involuntary step toward her but she was already on her feet, arms outstretched, reaching for Hannah.

"That's wonderful! Congratulations! When did this happen?"

She hugged him, too, a brief moment of contact that was over before he could even lift his arms to return the gesture. It lasted long enough, though, that he felt her whole body trembling. She was back in her seat before he had time to react.

Angela mumbled something that sounded congratulatory but her attention was wholly on Brennan. When she put her hand on Brennan's knee, Brennan covered it with her own.

"Just last night." Hannah slid into the seat closest to the window, happily filling the silence between the other three with the tale. "It was such a surprise, I mean, really a surprise. I'm soooo not the marrying kind but Seeley just wouldn't take no for an answer."

Booth was frozen in place, his eyes still on Brennan when Angela winced in pain.

"Are you going to eat standing up?" Hannah patted the chair next to her and then continued the story as he sat down with slow, jerky movements. "Anyway, the ring was a little small so we had it sized this morning and now it's perfect - just like us." The last words came with an affectionate kiss on the cheek.

"I'm so happy for you both." Brennan's face was pale, her eyes glittering and over-bright, but the tremor in her voice was almost unnoticeable. Almost. "Have you discussed a date for the wedding yet?"

Again, it was Hannah who answered. If anyone noticed Booth's silence, it went unremarked.

"Oh no, there's no hurry. It will just be a small thing, anyway. I'm not really the fluffy white dress kind of girl. Hey!" Her eyes widened with the glimmering of an idea. "Temperance, when we get everything nailed down, would you like to be my maid of honor? I don't really have a lot of friends here so-"

Angela suddenly leaned over with a loud, dramatic moan that drew everyone's attention.

"I'm sorry," she said, plastering an expression of apology on her face as she covered her swollen midsection with a hand that looked painfully red and sore. "I'm suddenly not feeling very well. Just a bit queasy . . . Brennan, honey, would you mind if we went back to the lab? I think I need to lie down for a minute."

"Of course." Brennan immediately jumped to her feet, reaching out to support Angela as she stood up. "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. It's not uncommon for nausea to strike during the second trimester, and sometimes even into the third. In fact . . ."

"Yea, yea, I got it, sweetie. I read the books, too." Brennan continued to recite a litany of pregnancy-related facts as Angela circled her waist with one arm and began to herd her toward the exit; her smile was tight and forced when she looked back at Hannah and Booth. "Sorry to scoot. You two just enjoy your lunch and your . . . engagement and . . . whatever. Congratulations."

Hannah watched them leave with an expression of concern. "Oh, that's too bad. I hope she'll be okay."

Booth's eyes were on Brennan. From this angle, it was impossible to say who was supporting whom.

"Yea," he managed finally. "Me, too."

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_Saying "thanks for reading" after this kind of chapter feels very inappropriate. So, I'm not gonna. (Although I am grateful that you're here.)_


	3. A Friend in Need

Righteous indignation took a backseat to fear and concern as Angela propelled Brennan out of the diner. One look at the pale, shell-shocked face and she had only one thought: _Distract her._ Words poured out, nonsensical phrases that tumbled out carelessly, connecting to form sentences that flowed on without rhyme or reason, all spoken in a bright, cheerful tone that did nothing to dispel the frigid temperature of the otherwise unseasonably warm afternoon. She knew her efforts were in vain; Brennan heard none of it. She simply kept walking, one foot in front of the other, entombed in a shroud of brittle silence. If she was aware of the curious stares directed her way by passersby, she didn't show it.

By the time they reached the lab, Angela was almost beside herself with worry. She had one arm wrapped securely around Brennan's waist when the sliding doors opened with a soft _whish_. Hodgins glanced up absently from his work on the platform and did a double take on seeing his wife's panic-stricken gaze. Alarmed, he hurried down to meet them.

"What's wrong? What happened?"

To his surprise, it was Brennan who answered. Her voice was flat and sepulchral.

"Angela was afflicted with a sudden bout of nausea. She should lie down."

Eyes wide, Hodgins looked past her to Angela, who seemed close to tears herself as she shook her head.

"Do you have anything left from that last batch of alcohol you made?" The murmured words were quiet as together, they shepherded Brennan toward her office. "Get it," she ordered, as she led the other woman to the sofa. "And a cup."

He rushed to follow her instructions. When he returned minutes later, Cam was at his heels.

"Dr. Hodgins said . . ." She gave a start of surprise at the scene inside Brennan's office. "Oh my God. What happened?"

Angela's fingers trembled when she grabbed the bottle from Hodgins and splashed a generous measure of amber liquid into the empty coffee cup he held out.

"Drink." She stuffed the cup into Brennan's hands then looked over her shoulder as she collapsed into the nearest chair. "Booth proposed to Hannah."

Cam's jaw dropped. "No!"

"You're kidding!" Hodgins was no less stunned.

"They . . . ambushed us at lunch. I got her out of there as soon as I could but . . ." Without hesitation, Angela lifted the bottle to her own mouth and swallowed once before she passed it back to her husband.

"Angie!" Hodgins was even more shocked.

She was unrepentant. "Trust me, the baby needs a drink right now, too." Angela's voice was bitter, her face set in grim lines as she watched Brennan raise the cup to her lips and down the contents with a visible shudder. When she caught Angela's eye, she managed a tight smile.

"How are you feeling? Are you still nauseous?"

Sympathy battled with a rush of renewed anger as Angela shook her head and tugged the empty mug from Brennan's bloodless fingers. "No, honey. I'm fine."

"Good. Good. That's good to know. Nausea often occurs sporadically throughout pregnancy. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about." Brennan's hands dropped to her knees, clenched so tight that the knuckles were visible beneath the skin. After a moment of taut silence, she drew a deep, shuddering breath. "Thank you for lunch. I should . . . I should get back to work now. I have . . . I have work . . ."

Angela mentally screamed curses at Booth as she leaned in close and spoke in a low, concerned whisper. "Brennan, sweetie, you can't go out there."

"Of course I can." Despite the rigid control she so obviously struggled to maintain, Brennan's chin rose in a familiar gesture of defiance. "I'm extremely busy . . . I have a great deal of work to do . . . "

"Brennan . . ." Heart aching, Angela laid one palm over Brennan's knotted fists and squeezed. "Honey, you're crying."

Seconds ticked away while Brennan stared back, then her fingers rose slowly to her cheeks with the first awareness of the tears that had been falling since they left the diner. One look at the moisture on her fingertips and her face crumpled.

"I'm happy for him. I am."

It was more than Angela could stand. She was out of the chair and on her knees in an instant, drawing the unresisting woman into a crushing hold. Helpless, her gaze rose to Cam and Hodgins, standing behind them in stricken silence. No one knew what to do.

"I'm happy for him," Brennan said again, as she continued to weep on Angela's shoulder. "I am. I am. I don't know why I'm crying."

Her pain was raw and bleak and watching her felt indecently intimate. Cam looked away, arms hugged tight around her middle. When she faced them again, her eyes were wet, too.

"Dr. Brennan, I'm giving you the afternoon off. I think you should go home."

"No." Brennan shook her head and took several swipes at her damp face as she pulled away from Angela. "Thank you, Dr. Saroyan, but I don't need to go home. I need to work. I would prefer to work."

Cam was just as adamant. "Dr. Bre-" Her lips compressed into a straight line before she inhaled deeply and did something she'd never done before. "Temperance. Go home." With a firm stare that brooked no defiance, she nodded at Angela and Hodgins. "Take her home."

They were in immediate agreement. Over Brennan's dispirited objections, they gathered her things and bundled her down to the parking garage and into Hodgins' car. Despite the cramped conditions in the small vehicle, Angela spent the journey sitting almost sideways in her seat, her gaze straying repeatedly to the silent woman in the back.

There were no more tears and that worried her more than Brennan's earlier storm of weeping. Her eyes were dry, dulled of their usual sparkle as she stared out the window and watched the miles pass by.

When they arrived at Brennan's apartment, Angela took charge again. She left Hodgins standing just inside the doorway while she ushered her friend back to the bedroom.

"Why don't you lie down for a bit, okay? How about a nice hot cup of tea? You can stay right there. I know where everything is."

"Yes. Thank you."

Uncharacteristically docile, Brennan accepted the suggestion without argument. She sank down on the bed, curled into a tight ball.

Angela backed out of the room, a supportive smile plastered on her face. When the door closed, her expression changed. Enraged, she stomped to the kitchen. Hodgins followed her, careful to keep a wary distance.

"That son of a bitch. I hate him. I hate him." Cabinets and drawers slammed as she searched for and found what she needed, all the while hissing with fury. "How dare he spring that kind of news on her without warning? Son of a bitch. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him."

She slammed a kettle down with enough force to cause Hodgins to flinch.

"Bastard. He should have called her first. He should have called her. He should have told her in private instead of dumping it on her in public like that. Son of a bitch. I hate him. I hate him."

Hodgins somewhat hesitantly broke in.

"Angie, you can't hate the guy for falling in love . . ."

She spun toward him, spitting like an angry cat. "Whose side are you on?"

He immediately threw up his hands and took one step back. "Yours. Bastard."

Angela was not amused. Growling in disgust, she reached for a flat, rattan tray.

"He doesn't love Hannah," she muttered as she found a cup and saucer. "She's a . . . a . . . prop. He got his feelings hurt when Brennan didn't jump at the chance to be with him but instead of waiting for her to catch up, he runs off to play GI Joe and then he comes home with that . . . that . . . that . . . with her. And then she's all, _ooooh, look at my ring_!" Angela stuck out her left hand and mimicked a simpering pose and a high-pitched saccharine voice. "_Seeley wouldn't take no for an answer!"_

Hodgins winced at the exaggerated playacting. "Ange . . ."

Not even the whistle of a boiling kettle stopped Angela's tirade. She poured hot water over a tea bag, then added spoon after spoon of sugar as she continued to rant.

"He should have told Brennan first. After everything that's happened between them, he owed her that. Instead he just stood there like a big . . . dumb . . . dummy! I hate him," she said again. Her icy glare dared Hodgins to argue with her. When he said nothing, she poked him in the chest with one pointed finger. "And I'll tell you one more thing, buster: the next time someone says that Temperance Brennan is cold and unfeeling, I'm going to punch them right in the nose."

Hodgins wisely kept his mouth firmly closed.

His silence only irritated her further but with no target to engage, Angela was reduced to muttering beneath her breath as she arranged the cup and saucer on the tray with a bright green napkin and, on a last minute impulse, a long-stemmed white daisy she plucked from an arrangement on the counter. With the tray in hand, she took a deep, calming breath and left the kitchen.

"Brennan?" All traces of anger were gone when she nudged the bedroom door open. She crept inside. "I made you some tea."

Brennan pushed herself up to a seated position while Angela placed the tray on the bedside table, then accepted the offered cup with a weary smile. "Thank you."

Angela settled into a spot at her feet, studying her friend carefully as she grimaced at the first sip of the too-sweet beverage. She was too pale but even though her eyes were rimmed in red they were almost painfully dry. Although it was midday, the bright sunshine in the room was painted with shadows filled with loss and grief.

"I didn't believe him." Brennan wrapped both hands around the warm cup and stared into the steaming liquid. Her voice was deeper than usual and scratchy, as if the words were being forced out. "When he said he loved her, I didn't believe him. Not really. I thought if I just waited . . . Their relationship seemed so superficial and he told me . . ." She broke off and glanced up with a small, tragic smile. "Well, it doesn't matter. I was wrong." She held Angela's gaze. "I am happy for him."

"I know." At a loss for anything more constructive, Angela patted her knee.

"I'm going to be sad, too, but just for tonight. Tomorrow, I will put this behind me and move on." Her eyes were suddenly wet again when she looked at Angela. "Will you help me?"

Angela took the almost untouched cup from her hands and put it back on the tray, then pulled Brennan into a hug.

"I am always here for you, Brennan. Always."

"I love you, Angela."

Angela squeezed harder. "I know you do, honey. I love you, too."

When they parted, Brennan lay back, curled on her side again. Without hesitation, Angela stretched out behind her. Between them, an unborn child protested the sudden change in position with the nudge of a tiny fist.

Brennan felt the bump against her back. "Was that the baby?"

"Yea." Angela smiled into her hair. "Whenever things get too quiet he starts with the gymnastic routine."

There were more bumps and nudges as the baby turned and stretched and resettled. The two women were quiet as the movements touched each of them, one from within, one from without.

Brennan's whisper finally broke the silence.

"It must be wondrous, to feel new life growing in your womb."

The wistfulness in the quiet words was Angela's undoing. She hugged Brennan closer and, silently, let her own tears fall.


	4. Questions

In certain parts of the American South, there is a joke that the last four words of the National Anthem are "Gentlemen, start your engines!" It's said with a smile or a roll of the eyes, and is indicative of the great number of fans who attend NASCAR races, where a local singer's warbling of _The Star Spangled Banner _is usually drowned out by the announcer and the roar of dozens of powerful engines starting at the same time.

By the end of that long day after he proposed to Hannah, Booth understood the joke; it seemed inevitable that "congratulations!" would be followed by, "does Dr. Brennan know?"

The news swept through the Hoover Building faster than the blaring of a fire alarm. An assistant from Cyber Crimes had been in the diner when the scene played out and practically left scorch marks on the sidewalk racing back with the announcement. The congratulations and well-wishes began the minute Booth walked into the building, starting with the guard manning security. His name was called, his back was patted, his shoulder was tapped with a closed fist and then he was pelted with questions.

"Have you set a date?"  
"Will the wedding be in DC?"  
"Where are you going on your honeymoon?"  
"Is Parker excited to get a stepmom?"

And almost without fail, "does Dr. Brennan know?"

The easy questions were, well, easy. He deflected them with a smile and an off-hand shrug and a few noncommittal answers and that was that. The hard question . . . the one that involved Brennan . . . that one wasn't so easy. The words got under his skin and stayed there, like a bug bite that itched and itched until you drew blood scratching because the pain was at least different than the itch. His smile grew strained and then stiff and finally became nothing more than a lopsided twitch from one side of his mouth. By the end of the day he was wound tighter than a broken spring.

It was not a good time for Sweets to drop in.

"You did it? Really? You did it?" The young psychologist stood in the doorway of Booth's office with his mouth agape. He took a few steps inside, seemingly unaware of the simmering tension in the other man. "I mean, I know you said you were going to but . . ."

Booth tossed aside a file he'd been staring at for twenty minutes and stood up, hands on his hips, and forced a wide, carefree grin.

"I did it," he nodded. "Yes, I did. I proposed to Hannah. I did it. I proposed. I did."

"And she said yes?" If anything, Sweets was even more surprised.

Booth's hands dropped to his side. The big, false smile slid away. "What's that supposed to mean?"

If Sweets felt the ice cracking beneath his feet, he didn't show it. "Well, she's always been pretty clear that she's not interested in marriage. I've heard her say that myself, several times."

The grimace masquerading as a smile was back. "What can I say," Booth shrugged. "I'm a pretty persuasive guy."

"Uh huh." The keen brown eyes sharpened, finally taking in Booth's stiff posture and rigid jawline. "Does Dr. Brennan know?"

"Yes." The answer came out from behind lips that barely moved. "We ran into her at lunch."

"At lunch." Sweets watched him carefully, seeing, as always, much more than Booth wanted him to. "You didn't . . . call her first? You didn't tell her privately?"

Booth didn't respond. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed.

"How did she react to the news?"

Bands of iron squeezed the air out of his lungs as Booth remembered that first, small gasp; his fingers clenched hard around the edge of the desk in an effort to ward off the feel of her body trembling against his.

"She was fine," he rasped finally. "She was happy for us. Congratulated us."

This time it was Sweets who remained silent. One minute turned into two before Booth chafed under the focused observation.

"Look, Bones and I are partners, okay? Why wouldn't she be happy for us? We're partners. She and I are partners. Just partners. That's all we've ever been."

If anything, Sweets' study of him grew even more intense.

"Strictly speaking, that's not true, is it? After all, you thought you were in love with her, didn't you?"

"I didn't just think it, I was-" The heated retort burst out before he could stop it. His jaw clamped shut.

A gleam of satisfaction flashed briefly on Sweets' face before he wiped it away.

"And of course, only a few weeks ago Dr. Brennan also seemed to realize that she had stronger feelings for you than-"

"That's enough." Anger spiked hot, sharpened with guilt and regret, blazing out of his eyes in a burst of fire that had Sweets backing up one step. "I know what you're doing," Booth growled, "and you can just stop right there. I don't need you shrinking me, alright? And I have work to do so it's time for you to leave. Right now."

Sweets bravely stood his ground.

"You seem a little defensive, Agent Booth. Perhaps we should set up a time to discuss-"

"What I am is pissed," Booth shot back. "Because you're wasting my time. Get out."

"I really think-"

"One."

"Okay, maybe if we-"

"Two."

When Booth started around the desk, Sweets hastily retreated.

"Fine, fine. Let's touch base in a few days." He scooted out of view.

Alone, Booth sat down heavily and dropped his head into his hands. Brennan's white face, the glittering overbright eyes, filled his mind's vision. When the phone at his elbow trilled, he turned his chin to see the screen.

It was Hannah.

He let it ring again, then picked it up, silenced it, and turned it over, face down.


	5. Circling the Wagons

A trip to the gym wasn't enough to burn off the nagging sense of impending doom, nor was a hot shower or the first drink he had when he got home. A second drink was scalding its way down his throat when the door opened.

"Well, hey you!" Hannah's voice was bright and chipper when she saw him standing at the window, staring morosely down at the street. She tossed her canvas messenger bag on the sofa and headed to the bedroom, arms raised as she removed her earrings. "I called you earlier. Did you get my message?"

"Yea, sorry. I was in the middle of something." More out of habit than anything else, Booth followed her.

She glanced over his flannel shirt and jeans and then at the glass in his hand. The earrings landed with a tinkle of metal and glass in a porcelain bowl on the dresser. "Have you been home long? Have you had dinner?"

Only if that first drink counted as a meal. "Yea."

"Well, then, I guess you'll just have to watch me eat." If she saw anything amiss in his brooding demeanor, she didn't mention it. Smiling, she went up on her toes to press her lips against his.

The playful moment changed in an instant when Booth slammed his drink down beside her jewelry and hauled her close for a kiss that was almost bruising in its intensity. One hand rose; fingers tangled around silken curls, he jerked her head back.

"Tell me you love me." There was desperation in his eyes, and a fierce wildness behind the bared teeth and the growl of his voice. Aroused by what she thought was a rough, edgy new game, Hannah pressed closer to his body.

"I love you."

Another tug, this one much harder. "Say it again."

"I love you." Her lips slid away from his and along his cheek and neck, punctuating each declaration while she attacked the buttons of his shirt. "I love you, Seeley. I love you."

He finally let her go, forced to loosen his hold as she bent to kiss each square of smooth warm skin as it was uncovered. When she dropped to her knees and reached for his belt, Booth closed his eyes.

.

.

.

Three days passed.

Emails were exchanged with details and test results from the case just finished, and although Booth studied Brennan's with more care than he'd ever looked at a book during college, he could detect nothing more than her usual brisk efficiency. He replied in kind, deliberately neutral and impersonal.

At 11:32 on the fourth day, in the middle of an interminable all-agents status meeting, his cell phone buzzed.

_Possible homicide. Jeff on scene. _

An address followed.

He pushed back from the table immediately, holding up his phone and looking with false apology toward the front of the room where Hacker held court.

"Sorry, sir. I have a body. The Jeffersonian's already been sent out . . ."

Hacker's frown cleared. "You're excused, Agent Booth. Oh, and please give Dr. Brennan my best."

Booth answered with a tight smile and made his escape.

His fingers tapped restlessly against the steering wheel during every mile of the relatively quick trip to the crime scene. Parked alongside the FBI vans, the sight of the white box-like vehicles with the distinctive _Jeffersonian Medico-Legal_ logo only ratcheted up the nervous tightening of his stomach muscles as he got out of his own SUV and headed toward the sprawling suburban home. He was so busy mentally rehearsing what he wanted to say that he barely noticed the smell that greeted him when he entered the house.

Long strides carried him through several rooms filled with crime scene techs before he found the main source of the activity. A quick glance around was followed by another slower, more careful study.

Brennan wasn't there.

"Where's Bones?"

Cam and Hodgins were bent over a gruesome set of remains soaking in an even more gruesome puddle of fluid inside the recessed lower curve of a tanning bed. At the sound of his voice, Cam threw a surprised glance over her shoulder.

"What are you doing here?"

He pointed at the remains and stated the obvious. "Dead body. What do you think I'm doing here?"

After the briefest of nods, Hodgins ostentatiously resumed his work.

Cam, however, straightened and faced him directly. Her expression was not friendly.

"Why? What makes this a federal case?"

Booth was giving her only minimal attention; he backed up a few steps until he could see down a hallway on one side and into the kitchen on the other.

"Because I'm here," he answered almost absently. "Where's Bones?" That she wasn't present was now clear.

Cam's eyes narrowed as she watched him search for Brennan.

"I sent her back to the lab. She wasn't necessary."

That earned her Booth's full attention.

"What do you mean, she wasn't necessary?"

Cam gestured vaguely toward the human remains behind her. "She can't do anything with the body while it's in this state and the housekeeper has already given us an ID so unless someone broke into a wedding planner's office just to use the tanning bed, it shouldn't be too hard to confirm identification. Until the flesh is removed, Dr. Brennan has other work she can do back at the lab."

"Say's who?" Booth spoke from disappointment and frustration, and from a small place of fear that Brennan might suddenly disappear on one of the anthropological excursions she'd vanished to in the past. Whatever his reasons, though, it was the wrong thing to say.

All around them, techs from the Jeffersonian and the FBI slowed in their various tasks, creeping closer as they found excuses to look toward the snarling pair and eavesdrop on the developing argument.

"I do." Cam's face tightened as she glared at him. Her gloved hands balled into fists at her side. "I have the final say as to the best use of my lab's resources and it was my decision that right now, Dr. Brennan's specialized skills would be put to better use on other projects."

"Why are you snapping at me?"

"Why are you questioning how I run my lab?"

She was furious, that much was obvious, and it didn't take Booth's considerable skills of deduction and observation to understand why. In many ways, she knew him better than anyone else.

And in certain specific ways, she knew more about him than he was comfortable remembering.

Her lips curved in a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "So I hear congratulations are in order. You proposed to Hannah."

It sounded like an accusation, and stung like one, too. Backed into a corner, Booth came out fighting.

"Yes, I did. I love her."

_You're in love with Dr. Brennan._

And there it was. The words hung between them as if written on the air. He blinked first, and when Cam's dark gaze gleamed with triumph, clamped his jaw shut.

"You got something to say, Camille?"

_. . . if you crack that shell and then change your mind, she'll die of loneliness before she'll ever trust anyone ever again . . ."_

The memory burned like acid. He couldn't hide it, not from her.

Cam watched him in silence. Then, with a lift of her chin, she stepped back.

"Sure. Congratulations." She dismissed him without another word, then, while Booth stomped off in search of the housekeeper she had mentioned, spoke brusquely to the suddenly very busy room.

"Okay, people, get a move on. Valentine's Day is Friday and I have plans that don't include a dead body."


	6. Second Thoughts

Booth interviewed the housekeeper, methodically asking questions and taking notes and all the while, anger simmered in a toxic stew of indignation and fury. Some of the internal strife must have shown on his face because the distraught woman was quick to swallow her tears and began to offer information before he asked for it. When he had gotten everything he could, he thanked her with a curt nod and a request not to leave the area. Then he headed for the front door, stopping only when he saw a tech tagging a computer for transport.

"I want a report on whatever's on that hard drive on my desk by tomorrow morning," he barked.

The tech took one look at his dark scowl and changed her mind on complaining about the overtime. "Yes, sir."

Cam didn't say goodbye or even look up as he stomped out. Neither did Hodgins.

_To hell with them._

The beltway's bumper-to-bumper traffic did nothing to soften his black mood and by the time he arrived back at the Hoover, he was cloaked in bitter resentment. Two hours of working alone didn't help; a cursory search of the name given to him by the housekeeper pulled up a website devoted to weddings, covered with photographs of ecstatic brides and smiling grooms and picture-perfect families.

Weddings.

Proposals.

Hannah.

Bones.

Bones.

_You're in love with Dr. Brennan._

Seconds away from putting his fist through the monitor of his computer, Booth shoved the keyboard away and marched off toward the break-room. The hallways miraculously emptied along his route. In his current state, no one, it seemed, was brave enough to approach.

Well, almost no one.

"Agent Booth?"

It was the third attempt before Booth finally heard Sweets calling his name.

"What?" The heat in his glare would have sent a less determined man stumbling out of the room. Sweets, however, remained where he stood.

"Is everything alright? You've been staring into that coffee cup for . . ." He glanced at his watch. ". . . two minutes."

"Everything's fine."

Sweets took several hurried steps out of the way as Booth deliberately brushed past, then quickly followed at his heels.

"Something is obviously bothering you. Would you like to talk about it?"

"Nothing is bothering me. Alright? Nothing is bothering me." Coffee splashed onto files and papers when Booth slammed the cup down and faced the other man. "I have a right to be happy."

The outburst came out of nowhere.

Sweets discreetly reached back and closed the glass door of Booth's office.

"Yes, you do."

Booth began to prowl restlessly in the space behind his chair, seeming not to notice as Sweets settled into one of the seats in front of his desk. Several times, he opened his mouth to speak, only to close it again. Finally, the words just poured out.

"Okay, maybe once upon a time me and Bones . . . there might have been . . . but she said no." The pacing stopped. His gaze bored into Sweets. "I asked, alright? I asked and she said no. She cut it off, right then. She wasn't interested. She didn't want to take the chance. Okay? She didn't want to try. Not me. Her. So, fine. We moved on." Agitated, he began to roam again. "She moved on. I moved on. We moved on. We moved on."

Elbows bent on the arms of the chair, Sweets templed his fingers beneath his chin and said nothing.

"I mean, I told her. I told her that I needed to move on. And she said fine. She went out with Hacker, for God's sake! And that's fine!" Booth threw his hands up with a brief, false laugh. "That's okay, right? Because we moved on. Both of us. And Hannah . . ." He stopped and smoothed his tie in a familiar gesture. "Hannah said yes. Okay? Bones didn't want what I was offering but Hannah did. Hannah said yes. Hannah loves me. Alright? And I have a right to be happy."

Sweets considered him with thoughtful eyes. "And are you, Agent Booth? Are you happy?"

The question brought him up short.

"Of course I'm happy. Weren't you listening? Hannah loves me. She wants to marry me. Yes, I'm happy."

Sweets very carefully lowered his hands to his lap. "Is it possible," he began slowly, "that there are unresolved issues between you and Dr. Brennan and proposing to Hannah is simply a way of avoiding them?"

_You're in love with Dr. Brennan._

"There are no issues between me and Bones." Booth raised his voice to drown out the memory. "None. Alright? She didn't want me. End of story. Hannah does, and we're getting married."

Sweets didn't look convinced. "Perhaps if you and Dr. Brennan talked about this . . ."

Booth cut him off. "Bones and I are partners. That's what we are. Partners." Lying on his desk, the edges of a stack of index cards caught his eye. Suddenly resolute, he swept them up, dragged his suit coat from the back of his chair and headed for the door. "And you know what partners do? They work together. To hell with them."

Before Sweets could ask what he meant, Booth was gone.

.

.

.

He rarely came to the lab anymore and even without the added interest of the present situation, his appearance merited surprised reactions. Except for a raking glance across the platform that registered the absence of the woman he wanted to see, Booth ignored them all, focused on one goal: Brennan.

She was in her office, working at her desk, with the tell-tale crease between her eyebrows that bespoke of great concentration. Movement in the doorway drew her attention there.

His eyes were already locked on her so Booth saw every split second reaction to her first sight of him.

The initial surprised, welcoming and happy smile followed almost immediately by the memory of their last encounter. When the smile drained away, it was like the sun hiding behind a cloud.

"Booth." Brennan pushed back from the desk and stood up, steady and composed as she looked at him. "I wasn't expecting you. Are you looking for information on the body discovered this morning? I don't have anything for you. The bones are still being cleaned, I haven't been able to examine them yet."

Her hair was scraped back into a knot at the nape of her neck, a familiar style that emphasized the strong shape of her jaw. The severe lines of a black blouse leached color from already pale cheeks but he knew her clothing wasn't responsible for the violet smudges visible beneath her eyes.

Guilt made sandpaper from his voice.

"No, I . . ." Words failed him. To cover up the hesitation, he reached inside his coat for the index cards with his notes. The heavy black scrawl might have been hieroglyphics for all the sense he could make out of the writing.

Their eyes met and held. Hers were silver and blue and every shade in between and suddenly, just breathing seemed impossible.

"I'm sorry." Booth didn't know he was going to apologize until he heard himself speak. "For not telling you, I mean. For not telling you first about me and . . . and Hannah." Brennan's gaze flickered slightly. "For lunch, for letting you find out like that . . . I should have called you. I meant to call you but . . ."

"Oh. Yes, thank you. That would have been considerate." Brennan's chin rose a fraction of an inch but her was voice was even, her eyes dry. "However, it's understandable that Hannah would be very excited to share the news. Your news." The brief hesitation was almost unnoticeable. "I'm glad you're happy, Booth."

_I'm not happy._

For one horrified instant, Booth thought he'd said the words out loud. In the next, he wished had.

"Bones . . ."

Angela burst unannounced into Brennan's office and threw a folder onto her desk.

"Here's that file you asked for, sweetie."

Brennan picked up the suspiciously thin manilla file. "I didn't ask for . . ."

"What do you want?"

Angela faced Booth with a frigid expression and arms folded combatively across her chest. Her attitude wasn't a surprise; Hodgins' brief nod and pointed avoidance earlier had been more than enough forewarning but even so, Booth's resentment and feelings of ill-use came back in spades.

"I'm here to talk to my partner," he replied pointedly.

"Well, she doesn't have anything for you." Angela's response was just as sharp. "None of us do. And when we get something, we'll send you an email."

The contempt in her gaze stung. When he tried to step around her to speak directly to Brennan, Angela shifted to block his path.

He looked at her in disbelief. "Is this how it's going to be now?"

"Yes, it is," she hissed.

Behind them, Brennan tried to intervene. "Angela, Booth, this isn't necessary . . ."

The enmity between the pair was so strong, neither heard her. Booth's upper lip curled with derision.

"So, what are you going to do? Leave a note in my locker or just find me after homeroom?"

Angela's triumphant smile should have warned him.

"Well, I don't know," she purred smugly. "What do you suggest? After all, you're _that guy_, aren't you?"

It was a low blow but as a weapon, it was effective, its power drawn from their years of mutual friendship. When he flinched, she laughed.

Without another word, Booth pivoted on one foot and walked out.

.

.

* * *

.

_Pardon my indulgence but I feel like I need to say this. Although I don't particularly care much for DB, I love Booth and this is not going to be a 'bash Booth' type of story. It's really not. I know it feels like it right now because he's taking the lion's share of blame here but in the context of this story, this is *his* problem. He made this mess and he has to (i) realize it's a mess, (ii) want to get out of the mess, and (iii) find a way out of the mess. I am trying very hard not to beat him up gratuitously, because it's just not necessary. It isn't. And I am. I really am. Really. Pinkie swear. So I apologize if it feels otherwise. _

_Thanks for reading._


	7. Facing the Truth

Dismayed, Brennan watched Booth turn the corner and disappear.

"Angela, that was unnecessary."

The artist was unrepentant. "Says you. I feel a lot better."

"I am not angry with Booth," Brennan insisted calmly. "I'm happy for him, and for Hannah. In fact . . ." When she began to fidget with papers and pens on her desk, Angela's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Hannah called earlier. She's planning a party to celebrate their engagement and asked for my help."

Angela's mouth dropped open. "Please tell me that you told her she could take her party and stick it up her -"

"No, I didn't. I told her that I would be glad to offer whatever assistance I could."

"Brennan!" Angela's wail was heard on the platform. "Why?"

Brennan deliberately chose to misunderstand the question. "She needs my help with the guest list. She wanted the names of some of Booth's friends."

Angela threw up her hands. "She's marrying the guy and she doesn't know who his friends are?"

Brennan looked momentarily unsure but quickly rallied. "Booth is a very private person."

"Well, he was never private with you, was he?" Angela snapped. "He told you his life story within five minutes of meeting him!"

"You're exaggerating." A faint hint of pink warmed her pale cheeks.

The blush did it. "You know what you need, sweetie? A break. You need to get away." Angela warmed to the idea as she spoke. "Yes, that's exactly what you need to do. You should go away for a few weeks, maybe even a few months. Isn't there some Cro-magnon Neanderthal missing link guy in Mount Pikachu you could go study?"

Brennan looked confused. "I'm not familiar with that discovery . . ."

"Well, I'm sure there is one." Angela waved airily. "And you should go. Now. Right now. I'll help you pack."

"Thank you, Angela, but I'm not going anywhere." Brennan's smile was tender but her voice was firm. "My work is here. My friends are here - and I count Booth among those friends."

Angela glared at her. "You picked a hell of a time to stay put, Brennan." A minute passed before she heaved a deep, disappointed sigh. "Just so you know, this conversation isn't over but right now, this kid is playing kickball with my bladder so I have to go. But I am not done with you."

On that proclamation, she swept out of the office.

.

.

.

.

He didn't go back to work. He should have, there was more to be done and more hours in the day in which to do it. But he didn't.

He went to church.

Chaos surrounded him, his thoughts a swirling kaleidoscope of memories as anger and resentment battled with hope and uncertainty, underscored as always by the ever-present need to do the right thing. He was a good man. He'd spent his whole life trying to prove it.

Booth stepped across the shamrock embedded into the floor of St. Patrick's and slid into a pew at the back of the sanctuary. Others were there, most of them sitting closer to the front, near the closed wooden closets of the confessional at the side of the room. He gave them only a cursory glance before turning his attention to the big Rose Window above the choir loft. He took a deep breath and waited for the peace and serenity of the church to calm his troubled mind.

"Seeley. How nice to see you again. How have you been? How is Ms. Burley?"

The deep, rich tones fit the regal bearing of the dark-skinned priest who sat down in the row just in front of him. He shifted sideways, the better to see his recently absent parishioner.

"Father Paul. I'm good. She's good, thanks." No mention was made of how long it had been since Booth had been to confession but the implication was there, gently, just behind the words. He heard it. "We're getting married. Hannah . . . I asked and she said yes, so . . ."

"Congratulations." The black eyes twinkled with good humor. "Perhaps I'll see you again after your nuptials."

"Yea." Booth smiled back but it wasn't the easy grin of someone in perfect happiness.

Silence fell, broken by the squeak of metal hinges as the confessional door opened. A teenage boy stepped out, then waited politely as a stooped, gray-haired woman teetered forward for her turn.

Father Paul watched Booth.

"You know," he said finally, "we don't need a sliding panel between us just to talk."

Shoulders hunched, Booth stared down at his hands, at the restless clenching and unclenching of his fingers.

"I . . . it's Bones."

"Ah. And how is Temperance?" Smiling, the priest stretched his arm out along the back of the pew and settled in comfortably. "When you stopped coming to confession, she stopped coming with you to wait. I miss our chats."

Booth's grin came a bit more naturally. "You know, she's not a believer."

Father Paul shrugged. "Temperance believes in the universe. She sees majesty in each tiny blade of grass or the tallest redwood . . . or the spark that makes us human. While it's true that she doesn't credit those things to the power of our Creator, as you and I do, we share the same sense of wonder and amazement at the world our Lord has given us." He gave Booth a wink. "I can work with that."

"I'm still in love with her."

The confession surprised him. Father Paul, not so much. His face grew somber as he listened to the words pouring out of Booth's heart.

"I mean, I knew I still . . . cared . . . you know? That kind of feeling just doesn't go away. But I thought I was over . . . I thought I'd moved on, that it was in the past but . . ."

He raked a hand through his hair, then sat forward, elbows on his knees, with his forehead resting on his intertwined fingers.

"And Hannah . . . she didn't want to get married, she told me that, but I kept asking and I kept asking until she finally . . . And now she wants to get married and she's happy and I'm . . ."

"You are finally acknowledging your love for Temperance."

Booth looked up, his eyes bloodshot and rimmed in red. Angela's scathing contempt taunted him.

"I can't just walk away from Hannah. She hasn't done anything wrong. It's not her fault. And Bones . . . why would she trust me again? What makes me any different than some kid chasing after the shiniest toy?"

His head dropped onto his hands again.

"I don't know what to do."

Father Paul laid an open palm on one wide shoulder.

"Would you like me to pray with you, Seeley?"

When Booth nodded, the priest closed his eyes.

.

.

* * *

_Btw, for those of you weirdos who like this kind of angst (you know who you are!) I hope you're reading AmandaFriend's _The Odds in the Gambler. _If you aren't, you should be. Go now. Run, don't walk. And leave her a review because she is KILLING that story!_


	8. Facing the Fire

If God had an answer, He wasn't sharing it.

If anything, Booth left the serenity of the church in more turmoil than when he went in. He was in a prison of his own making, walking along a razor's edge all the while knowing that the blade would have its tribute of blood, no matter what. The only question left was from whom would it come.

He was almost pathetically grateful for the quiet emptiness that greeted him when he opened the door of his apartment. It was a moment's reprieve, a few more short minutes to avoid a decision he didn't want to face.

His actions came by rote. He tossed his suit coat over the back of the first chair he passed. Dropped his keys on the kitchen counter. Plugged in his phone. Locked away his gun. Took off his tie. Stood in front of the liquor cabinet and then walked away empty-handed to pace the floor.

And pace it again.

He only stopped when a key rattled in the door.

"Hi!" Hannah's smile was wide and cheerful. She was beautiful and vivacious, her blue eyes bright and shining and happy. _Happy_. She was happy to see him.

She gave him a kiss on the cheek and immediately launched into an animated discussion of her day as she, too, wandered through the rooms they shared, going through the motions of her own daily habits. His eyes tracked her movements. He participated in the conversation with grunts and syllables, his body in the present while his thoughts slipped into the past.

.

.

_The firefight was brutal but swift. When the guns fell silent, the streets were deserted. Booth did a quick headcount of the men under his command and allowed himself one breath of relief when the number added up correctly._

_The moment was short-lived. _

"_SARGE!" _

_His eyes followed the gesture that accompanied the shout to an alleyway where two people huddled for safety. A man in western clothes cradling a camera protectively in his arms. And a woman, her blonde hair uncovered - out of defiance or disrespect, he didn't know and didn't care. _

_Goddammit._

"_Cover me!" The words were barely out before he took off at a low, crouching run. Gunfire popped around him, peppering the ground with tiny puffs of dust and sand. _

_His fury raged to an inferno when he made it to their shelter._

"_What the hell are you doing here? This area is supposed to be cleared of civilians!" _

_The blonde shrank deeper into the shadows, hands over her ears, but met his eyes with bold challenge._

"_I'm with CNN. I have a meeting set up with Baasim Mahdy! I've been trying to get to him for three weeks. I'm not going to cancel it just because . . ." _

"_Are you that stupid?" Booth shouted back. "He set you up! And now you're getting out of here!" The violence in his dark gaze silenced any response she might have made. "When I step out, you two run back where I came from, understand? Don't look back, just run. NOW!" _

_He stepped into the street, gun raised, firing at anything that moved while his men did the same, providing a hail of protective bullets for the pair whose footsteps he heard racing toward his unit. When someone shouted, "Clear!" he backed up, still firing, until he, too, reached the safety of their ragged perimeter._

"_Go! Go! Go!" He shouted and waved everyone toward the waiting MRAP Cougars. "The scene is too hot, let's get out of here!"_

_Everyone rushed to obey, except the blonde._

"_I'm not leaving! It took me three weeks to schedule that meeting . . ."_

"_That's too fucking bad. I just canceled it." Over her screaming objections, Booth picked the woman up bodily and threw her inside the vehicle._

_Back at base, he dumped both the reporter and her cameraman on a cherry lieutenant, bit out a terse explanation and walked away. That might have been the end of it, except that she found him later that night. _

_Darkness was just beginning to fall, bringing with it a welcome coolness after the oppressive heat of the day. Escaping the noise and determined camaraderie of the other men, he found refuge where a small copse of three pitiful fig trees made their own stand for survival just beyond the barracks. With his back against one of them and a bottle of tepid water for company, he stared into the night sky and tried not to think of home. _

"_I guess I should say thank you for saving my life."_

_Her sudden appearance wasn't a surprise; she was smart enough to make plenty of noise as she approached him._

"_You're welcome." _

_The brusque response didn't encourage continued company but she ignored it. He didn't look around when she folded herself into a seat beside him so he didn't see her eyes warm with interest as she studied his profile. Without the cover of the heavy combat helmet, he was strikingly handsome._

"_So, do you think Mahdy really did set me up? That he never intended to show up for the meeting?"_

_That drew Booth's attention, although the look he gave her probably wasn't what she hoped for._

"_Seriously?" He shook his head, amused at her naivete. "Did you see anyone sitting outside that cafe? Anyone look like they were just having coffee and waiting to be on TV?" _

"_Right." She picked up the note of scorn in his voice but ignored that, too. Instead, she held out her hand. "Hannah Burley." _

_After the briefest of hesitations, he clasped it with his. "Booth."_

"_Well, yea, I know that much. I can read." Hannah nodded toward the name on his uniform and gave him a flirtatious smile. "What's your first name?"_

_This time the hesitation was longer. "Seeley." _

"_Well, Seeley . . ." She reached into her pocket and came out with a slim, silver flask. "Why don't we celebrate the fact that I'm still alive with something a little stronger than that bottle of water?"_

_His eyes narrowed on hers. "Where'd you get that?"_

"_You'd be surprised what you can hide in a camera bag." The metal glinted in the moonlight when she gave it a little wiggle. "So, what do you say?"_

_._

_._

" . . . and Temperance said she'd be happy to help so I think we're all set."

He came back to the present with a jerk. "I'm sorry . . . what about Bones?"

They were in the kitchen. She was pouring a glass of wine.

"Seeley!" Hannah scolded him with tsking click of her tongue and a shake of her head. "Haven't you been listening at all? I'm talking about our engagement party. Temperance is going to help me work out all the details."

Booth's feet were frozen in cement when she passed in front of him, carrying her drink into the living room and reaching into her messenger bag for a black notebook.

"Bones is . . . Bones is going to help you with our engagement party?" He couldn't get the words to make sense in his head.

"Mmm hmm." Hannah sat down on the sofa and opened the notebook. A pen was hooked to the spiral binding. "I know how busy you are when you're knee deep in a case so I thought she could help with the guest list." She sent him a chiding look as she plucked the pen free. "It occurred to me that I don't know very many of your friends. Are you keeping them a secret or me a secret?" Her laughter said she thought both possibilities silly.

"No . . . you know, it's just . . . we don't go out much." The stumbling response matched his stumbling steps as he was finally able to move.

"Well, that's true." When he sat down beside her, Hannah leaned over for a lingering kiss. "We certainly manage to keep ourselves busy here."

"We don't have to do this." The words came out in a rush. His heart made the decision for him, but his head couldn't catch up.

"The party?"

"No." Booth faltered briefly at the innocent curiosity in her face. "I mean . . . I don't want to pressure you into anything. You know, getting married and . . . I know you didn't really want to so if you need some more time or . . ."

The stuttering speech was sloppy and hesitant and had completely the opposite effect from the germ of hope that lay behind it.

"Oh, Seeley." Hannah set aside the notebook and pen and turned fully toward him. "You've been a bit edgy lately, is that what's bothering you? Are you afraid I'm going to change my mind?"

She grasped his hands in hers and squeezed his fingers. Her expression was open and full of love.

"It's true that I never wanted to get married. I just never saw myself as anyone's wife. But that was before I met you. You changed my mind. Now I know how silly I was to be afraid of it. I mean, after all, nothing is really going to change, right? Marriage isn't that big of a deal. We'll still be who we are. We'll still be you and me." She gave a light, tinkling laugh. "We'll just have matching jewelry."

Booth opened his mouth and then closed it again. The ability to speak seemed to have deserted him.

Hannah took his silence as a need for further reassurance. She straddled his lap and draped her arms over his shoulders.

"I promise you, Seeley, that I am not going to change my mind. I love you." She punctuated her words with kisses all over his face. "I'm going to be your wife. You've got me, babe. Forever."

When her lips covered his, it sounded like the closing of a prison cell.


	9. Lessons Learned

Seeley Booth was eleven years old the first time he made a girl cry.

He and Mary Josephina had been going steady for two weeks when Vonda Mitchell's best friend ran up to him at lunchtime and pressed a note from the other girl into his hand. _I like you. Do you like me?_

Vonda had long blonde hair and sky-blue eyes . . . and she wore a bra. Mary Josephina was pretty enough but she wasn't Vonda Mitchell and she definitely didn't need to wear a bra. There was no contest.

When Mary Josephina showed up after school to sit on the porch with him and do homework (which really meant a lot of sloppy kissing when the street in front of his house was clear), he broke up with her. When she asked him why, he told her. Except for the part about the bra. Even at eleven, he knew enough to keep that to himself. She called him a bunch of names and ran away in tears. He didn't feel good about it.

He felt worse when he realized his grandfather had heard the whole thing.

"Seeley."

He knew that tone. He jumped to his feet and stood ramrod straight. "Sir?"

The screen door squeaked on its hinges when Hank opened it. "Come on in here, shrimp. I think it's time you and me had a talk about women."

With his cheeks flushed a mortified shade of crimson, Seeley shuffled his way into the cool, shaded interior of the house. A month ago, his best friend Mickey had been forced to sit through 'the talk' after his dad caught him looking at a Playboy magazine and the boy was still so traumatized, he'd start a fight if anyone teased him about it.

Hank, though, had plans that didn't include just explaining how body parts fit together. He settled into his patched old La-Z-Boy recliner and waited until his grandson sat down opposite him, perched so far on the edge of the sofa cushion that he was almost falling off.

"That wasn't very nice of you, son."

Seeley hung his head. "No, sir."

"You hurt her feelings."

"Yes, sir."

Hank sighed, a big, deep gust of air that brushed through Seeley's hair like a strong wind.

"Women are different than us, shrimp. They wear their feelings out in the open and trust us to take care not to ding them up too much, especially on purpose. That's the first lesson you need to learn if you want to be a man. Never hurt a woman's feelings on purpose, not if you can help it."

Seeley's eyes rose. "I didn't do it on purpose, Pops."

"You told her she wasn't pretty."

"No, I just told her Vonda was prettier."

"Lesson two," Hank rumbled. "Never tell a woman who has feelings for you that some other girl is prettier than she is. That kind of thing sticks with a woman her whole life. Like breaking up with her on her birthday or Valentine's Day. Don't do it."

Seeley flushed again. "I'm sorry."

"Ain't me you need to be apologizing to," Hank said bluntly. "Mary Josephina is a sweet girl and she liked you a lot. What do you like about this Vonda, other than she's pretty?"

Seeley closed his mouth and didn't mention the bra. He didn't have to. The sharp blue eyes narrowed as they studied him.

"There's a lot of things more important than a pretty face and you'd do well to keep that in your head, sport. That's lesson three, but I don't expect you to remember it until you're a bit older so I'll probably say it a few more times while you're growing up. The quickest way to a lonely life is to spend it running from one woman to another."

"But what if I like Vonda better?" It was a valid question, even if he was still thinking about that bra.

"Do you think you can like her enough to make up for hurting Mary Josephina's feelings?"

That stung. Seeley thought about the tears he'd seen in her big brown eyes and his shoulders hunched forward.

Hank wasn't ready to let him off the hook yet. "Here's lesson four. If you hurt one girl just to get to another one, it will never work. You're stepping up to the plate with two strikes against you and a curve ball coming your way that you can't hit."

Pops had a way of explaining things so a young boy could understand.

"Got one more lesson for you today. It's the hardest one but it's also the one you almost got right." Seeley looked up hopefully. "Don't go chasing some new girl if you have an understanding with another one. If you don't like the first one anymore, then you tell her. Be honest and come clean with it before you do anything else."

Confused, Seeley frowned at his grandfather. "But you just said I shouldn't hurt a girl's feelings on purpose."

Hank smiled. "Now you know why that lesson is the hardest one." He leaned forward and stared right into his grandson's dark eyes. "It's also why you don't make promises to a girl unless you're sure you can keep them."

He heaved himself out of the chair and patted the youngster on the shoulder.

"Jared is playing at Jimmy Parson's house. You go get him and bring him home while I start supper."


	10. Heartbreak

It came out all wrong. The words, the timing, everything. It was all wrong.

Hannah didn't seem to notice anything amiss when Booth shoved her off his lap, maybe because his phone rang at almost the same time, giving him a ready-made excuse to hurry across the room. Parker's voice filled his ear, excited about a basketball game, about scoring 13 points, about winning . . . The bright, animated chatter should have been soothing, should have calmed his troubled soul, should have warmed the ice in his veins that made every heartbeat painful.

But he barely heard anything at all.

He inserted the right exclamations . . . said "oh, really?" and "wow!" and "way to go, buddy!" whenever there was a pause. He even laughed - once - a brief, sharp, hard bark that sounded false to his own ears but apparently not to his ten-year-old son.

And all the while, he was conscious of Hannah behind him . . . of Hannah approaching him . . . of Hannah standing at his elbow . . . of Hannah smiling . . . of Hannah happily waiting for him to tell Parker about their engagement . . .

He heard Rebecca's voice and something about dinner and homework and then Parker was rushing away with an offhand, "Bye, Dad, love you!"

And then the phone was silent.

And the apartment was silent.

And he was silent.

The blinders were gone. The curtains ripped open. The rose-pink haze created from his own misguided determination faded to nothing so that, for the first time in months, everything was clear. Words spun in his head, phrases and apologies that sped through his thoughts like the view from a runaway train. His brain scrambled to find the easiest way to say what he must, to ease the pain and soften the blow he had no choice but to deliver.

Hannah was talking. Booth loosened his grip on the phone cutting into his palm, laid it on the counter, and tried to pay attention.

"Parker sounded excited. I could hear him from over here! What's going on? Why didn't you tell him about us? Or did you want to wait until he's here this weekend? We could make it a thing, take him out to dinner and surprise him . . ."

"No." The denial ripped from his throat. He knew the truth now, and now it had to be faced.

"Okay." Hannah shrugged easily. "Whatever you think is best. He and I have already had the stepmother conversation so . . ."

It was too much. The world seemed to be made of walls and all of them were closing in on him.

"I can't. I'm sorry. I'm sorry but . . ." The right words failed to come. "I can't."

Her curiosity was innocent and unspoiled of his intent.

"Can't what? Tell Parker? Why? Are you worried he'll be upset that we're getting married?" The thought made her laugh. "He'll be fine. Don't forget, we're buddies now."

"That's not what I meant."

The laughter on her face faded away when she finally noticed his tense, rigid posture. Suddenly, she was wary. Her chin went up. "Then what did you mean, Seeley?"

Seconds ticked off the clock. Jaw clamped shut, Booth steeled himself and held her gaze.

"Hannah . . . I . . . I can't marry you. I . . . I'm sorry. I can't."

She blinked rapidly as the words settled in her ears. "What?"

The blood draining from her cheeks struck him mute with guilt. His mouth opened and closed.

"I'm sorry," he managed finally. It seemed that apologies were all he had. "I'm sorry."

She looked at him as if he were speaking a foreign language she didn't understand.

"You don't want to get married? You're calling off the wedding? Why?" As the truth sank in, her eyes began to shimmer beneath tears. "What happened? What's going on?"

Booth's hand rose compulsively before it dropped back to his side. He didn't have the right to touch her anymore.

"I'm sorry," he said again. In his own head, he sounded like a wind-up organ playing the same tune over and over. "I really am. I love you, I do, but . . ."

The tears were still there but now there was anger, too.

"But? You love me . . . but? What the hell does that mean?"

Once again, the words just wouldn't come.

"You're the one who wanted to get married!"

Hannah was angry and hurt. He stood in front of her, facing her directly, his head bowed.

"I know . . ."

"I was just fine! I was happy with the way things were!" Her voice grew loud and shrill. "I didn't want to get married!"

"I know . . ."

"You're the one who brought it up," she reminded him. The tears were back, heavier than before. When one escaped, she dashed it away with the back of her hand. "_You_ asked _me_. You _begged _ me."

"I know . . ." She was right. He'd practically forced her to accept his proposal. It was one more thing to hate himself for. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." It wasn't enough but it was all he could say. "I thought that's what I wanted. I thought I was ready, I thought I was over . . ."

Too far. He'd gone too far.

Hannah tightened her arms around her middle and glared at him. Her chin trembled but her eyes were hard.

"It's Temperance, isn't it?"

Booth was already shaking his head, denying the accusation that someone else shared the blame. "No. No, Hannah. Bones doesn't know anything about this - -"

"Don't lie to me, Seeley. It's always been her, hasn't it? She was the one you told me about in Kabul, wasn't she? The one who didn't love you back?"

"Hannah . . ."

Her crack of bitter laughter sounded like his had earlier. Sharp and without any pretense of humor.

"So, what is it? Now she loves you? That's it, right? Now she loves you so you don't need me anymore?"

"No. No. That's not what happened."

"What was I? Door number two? Just someone to help you make her see what she was missing? Well, congratulations, then. I guess it worked."

She was crying in earnest now. Every tear felt like acid burning through his skin.

"Hannah, I swear . . ."

"Did you love me at all, Seeley?"

"Yes," he insisted immediately. There was something broken in her voice that cut him to the quick. "I did! I do! I love you, Hannah, I do! Just not . . ." He broke off the thought. "I never wanted to hurt you. You deserve better than what I can give you."

The look she gave him was full of loathing.

"Don't. You. Dare." Hannah straightened her shoulders and wiped her cheeks dry. "You used me. You and Temperance, both of you. I was just a pawn in whatever sick game the two of you were playing."

Booth shook his head. "No. No, that's not what happened." He took an entreating step toward her. "You can keep the ring!"

It was the wrong thing to say. He knew it as soon as he heard the words hanging in the air.

"Fuck you," Hannah snarled. Pain and fury flashed in her eyes as another rush of hot tears appeared. "I don't want your goddamn ring. I never did!"

She wrenched it from her finger and threw it at him. Her aim was off; it sailed harmlessly past his head and bounced off the wall behind the stove, then clattered over the metal stove-top to fall on the floor. When she whirled around to grab her purse and keys, Booth chanced another move in her direction.

"Where are you going? It's late . . . I'll sleep on the couch . . . We can talk about this tomorrow . . ."

She turned back.

"The only reason I'm coming back here tomorrow is to get my things. Don't be here. I never want to see you again."

The door slammed behind her with a vibration that seemed to echo endlessly through the apartment.


	11. Seventeen Words

"I took a photo of the cast I made from the damage to the bone." Angela walked into Brennan's office and tossed a glossy 8x10 print on her desk. "I used the measurements from the imprint to extrapolate the full image and came up with that . . ." She pointed at the picture. ". . . as the murder weapon."

Brennan stared at the image, her forehead creased. "What is it?"

"No idea," Angela shrugged. "I ran it through all the usual databases but I'm coming up empty." She glanced at the sheet of paper revealed when Brennan picked up the photograph to examine it closer. Upside down, the writing was difficult to decipher. "Is that something else for me to check?"

"No." For a few seconds, Brennan looked the slightest bit uncomfortable. Then she laid the picture aside and folded her hands. "It's a list of names and addresses for Hannah. For their engagement party. I just sent her a message asking if she wanted to meet for lunch to discuss it. Would you like to join us?"

Angela's face twisted into a grimace as she settled into the chair opposite Brennan's desk. "No, but I guess I should. If I'm not there to stop you, you'll probably end up offering to pay for their honeymoon, too."

"I'm sure they can afford to pay for their own honeymoon." When her phone beeped, she ignored the other woman's not-so-quiet muttering and reached for it. It took longer than it should have for Angela to notice that something was wrong.

"Brennan?"

Brennan finally tore her gaze away from the phone. Wordlessly, she passed it across the desk.

Angela read from the screen out loud.

_The wedding is off. Seeley told me everything last night. The two of you deserve each other._

Hearing the words spoken didn't help. Brennan's face was blank with confusion. "I don't know what that means."

Angela scanned the message again. When she looked up, her smile bordered on smug. "Well . . . at a guess, I'd say Booth finally realized he's in love with you and broke it off with her."

Color flooded Brennan's cheeks, then just as quickly drained away. "No." She shook her head. "No, Booth loves Hannah. He's happy."

The smugness was replaced by an almost pitying sympathy. "No, sweetie, he's not. And he doesn't. It's you. Brennan. It's always been you."

Brennan shook her head, adamant. "No."

Angela sighed. "Yes. Why do you think we've all been so mad at him? He was hurting you, hurting any chance the two of you had to be happy together, and for nothing! For a fling! It would never have worked with her. He wanted you and you turned him down and Hannah was just a bandaid. It was bound to end sooner or later."

"No." The word seemed to be stuck on a loop. Brennan picked up the phone, read the message again, and set it down. Her hands were shaking. "He was very clear. He told me repeatedly how happy he was. He was very specific and direct, every time. He loves her. He told me he loved her."

"Well, maybe he did," Angela shrugged. "Like, you know, I still love Grayson and Cam still loves Michelle's dad. When you let someone into your heart, they leave a shadow, no matter what happens later on. But whatever Booth feels for Hannah, it's nothing compared to what he feels for you. And I'm sorry, but if she had to get hurt for him to get his head out of his ass, it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make."

The wry humor flew over Brennan's head. She stared across the desk, face white, her eyes flicking back and forth between Angela's.

"I have watched the two of you dance around each other for six years," Angela said softly. "He loves you, Brennan. Trust me."

Without warning, Brennan shot up, sending ink pens rattling in their cup as she pushed back from the desk. "I have to go . . ."

"No." Angela struggled to her feet and hurried to put her pregnancy-swollen frame between Brennan and the door. "No, you don't. Sit down."

"I have to . . ."

"Sit down!" Angela took a step to the left when Brennan tried to go around her. "Sit down."

"But . . ."

Angela pointed toward the desk. "Sit down."

"Angela . . ."

"Sit down. Now. Sit!" A sharp jab of her finger toward the desk punctuated each word. "Brennan! Sit!"

She went, finally . . . reluctantly . . . with a mutinous set to her chin that warned of rapidly thinning patience. While Brennan lowered herself slowly back into her chair, Angela remained standing.

"I know what you want to do," she began. "You want to rush out of here and find Booth. Then he'll tell you his sob story and you'll pat his shoulder and tell him everything will be okay. Well, I'm not going to let you do that!"

Brennan's chin rose higher. "You can't . . ."

"No!" Angela cut her off. "No, Brennan. This is Booth's mess to clean up. He got himself into this situation and he needs to pull up his big boy underwear and fix it. All by himself! You can't do it for him."

"That's not what . . . "

"You can't go running to him, not right now." Angela's voice abruptly gentled. "Honey, I can't watch you get hurt again. You and Booth have a chance to . . . to be something great. To have something great. But as weird as it feels to tell you to slow down when you're already being outrun by snails, you have to. Whatever happened between him and Hannah . . . even if it's over, he needs time. You need time."

Brennan studied her for a long minute, the same way she examined the most minute bone fracture. Then she stood up again. Her face, and her words, were resolute.

"I appreciate your advice, and while I know you have a wider experience in these matters, you don't know Booth. I do."

With that, she stood up, grabbed the photograph of the murder weapon, and walked out.

Angela watched her go, then slumped into the chair she'd vacated earlier and looked down at the mound of her abdomen.

"After those two, raising you is going to be a piece of cake."


	12. Looking for Answers

Less than a mile separated the Jeffersonian building that housed the lab and the headquarters of the FBI. It was an easy walk, even pleasant on warm summer days or crisp autumn afternoons. Bundled up for the frigid winds of February, it was an altogether different experience but Brennan barely noticed the freezing temperature or the scattered bite of icy pellets of snow.

_The wedding is off. Seeley told me everything._

The words of the text message played through her head in Hannah's voice, marching in time with her steps. She didn't understand and not understanding was a frustrating experience. That frustration quickened her pace as she hurried toward one goal: Booth. Booth would explain everything. Booth would help her understand.

The lobby of the Hoover Building was warm to the point of stuffiness as she waited to go through security. Heads turned her way when she signed in, discreet glances that quickly flicked away when she looked up from pinning the visitor's badge to her lapel. No one was yet aware of the broken engagement but they knew Booth . . . and they knew Dr. Brennan. Her sudden appearance was enough to set tongues wagging.

Brennan was oblivious to the attention until she caught the fascinated eye of the security guard. He gave a little cough to cover his embarrassment.

"Will you be here long, Dr. Brennan? I could keep your coat back here . . ."

Her confused frown swept over the small space behind his desk. None of the guards had ever offered to store her belongings there.

"No, thank you. I'd prefer to keep it with me."

She swept past him with long strides marked by the echo of the heels of her boots tapping on the floor. When she stopped at the bank of elevators, the crowd already waiting stepped back, silently clearing a space for her.

.

.

.

In the men's restroom, Booth splashed cold water on his face. Hands braced on the counter, he leaned forward and stared at his reflection while water dripped from his cheeks and chin. He looked like hell. He felt like hell.

The amount of sleep he'd gotten the night before could be counted in minutes. Hannah's stricken face haunted him and her belongings - the makeup under the sink, the basket of lacy hand-washing in the closet, the scent of her perfume in his bed - taunted him. He lived that final, awful scene again and again, beating himself up with what he could have said. With what he should have said. After finally giving up on sleep that wouldn't come, he got dressed and hung around the apartment longer than usual, hoping Hannah might return . . . hoping for a chance to apologize . . . hoping for a chance to at least try to make it right.

He was an hour late for work when he gave up.

His mood was obvious enough that people left him alone when he stalked into the office and when he came out for coffee, there were none of the usual casual pleasantries. The careful wariness of his coworkers suited him. He wanted to be left alone.

The face in the mirror sneered back at him. _You deserve to be left alone._

He couldn't argue with the snide little voice. What excuse did a man have when he begged a woman to share his life and then less than a week later tells her 'oops, sorry, never mind!'? None. He had no excuse.

An undercurrent of violence rippled beneath the movement when he tore paper towels from the dispenser and dragged them over his face. He tossed the crumpled mess away without checking to make sure it landed in the trash and stomped toward the door.

_I had to do it. Yea, I made a mess of it but I had to break it off. I had to. I'll fix it. I'll give her a few days and then I'll apologize again and explain better and . . ._

"Bones!"

He almost ran her down as she stepped off the elevator. The shock of her unexpected appearance silenced the ongoing battle with his conscience.

Brennan was no less taken aback. Her gaze skimmed over him, taking in his haggard appearance, the shadows under his eyes and, incongruously, the scattered spots of water that dampened the front of his shirt.

Around them, work came to a halt as agents and staff stared at the two of them, frozen in place, staring at each other. Seconds ticked away and became a minute, until the jangle of a ringing phone broke the spell.

"I . . ." Brennan's mind went blank until she remembered the envelope in her hand. She raised it up into view. "Angela used the measurements from the markers on the bone to produce an image of the murder weapon. I . . . I thought you should see it."

"Oh. Yea. Okay." She might easily have sent the photograph by email but Booth's mind was blank, too, and he didn't ask why she was delivering it personally. His gaze swept over her face; there were shadows there, too, and a brittle composure that caused his gut to lurch painfully. He smoothed his tie. "Uh . . . we can . . . I guess, we should . . . my office . . ."

He made a small half turn and then stopped and looked back, just to make sure she was following him.

She was.

Around them, activity resumed at an almost frantic pace. Faces turned away and heads went down and then rose again when they passed by.

They didn't notice.

Inside his office, Booth sought the comparative refuge of his desk but remained standing. So did Brennan. They were each careful to avoid brushing fingertips when the flat brown envelope exchanged hands.

He pulled the photograph out and stared at it far longer than necessary before his thoughts settled enough to focus on what was actually on the paper.

"What is it?"

A hint of color stained her cheeks. "We . . . haven't found a match. Yet. But we will."

"Right." His brow furrowed as Booth stared at the image. It occurred to him, finally, that she could have sent an email. Instead, she'd walked through the cold to bring it to him.

Brennan watched the frown carve lines in his forehead. Her coat was draped over one arm; she slipped the other beneath it, too, and dug her fingers into the soft skin below her elbow. She took a deep breath.

"I received a text message from Hannah this morning."

Booth's eyes shot to hers. The edge of the photograph crumpled in his hand.

"The message said the wedding was off. It said . . ." She swallowed again, her gaze fixed on him. "It said that you told her everything. I don't understand. I don't know what that means."

Booth silently cursed himself, and Hannah, then cursed himself again. He wasn't ready. It was too soon. He needed more time . . .

A flicker of movement drew his attention. Charlie, in the bullpen, leaning over just enough to peek through the glass walls of his office. A quick glance caught other agents with the same avid curiosity.

_Goddammit._

He hurried across the room to shut the door, raking the space outside with a burning glare that had everyone finding somewhere else to look, somewhere else to be. When he turned around, Brennan stood where she was, watching him.

"Bones . . ." She was as tense as a frightened doe and just as ready to take flight. He steadied himself with a breath. "Yes, we . . . the wedding was called off."

"Why? What happened?" She searched his face. Her stomach churned . . . fear, anxiety, uncertainty . . . and something else she couldn't define. "I don't understand. You were both happy about it. You were . . . you said . . ."

"I know." He gestured to the pair of soft gray chairs in front of his desk. "Can we . . .?"

She sat.

And Booth sat. Then he collapsed back in the seat, pinched the bridge of his nose and blew out a loud, noisy breath of air. "God, where do I start?"

Brennan wasn't entirely sure the question was directed at her.

Booth opened his eyes to find her staring at him. He sat up straight and rested his elbows on his knees.

"I'm sorry that Hannah sent you that message. She's angry and hurt but she shouldn't take it out on you."

"I contacted her first," Brennan admitted. "I had a list of names for your engagement party and . . ." Her voice trailed away.

"Yea." His fingers wove together. "She shouldn't have asked you to help with the party, either."

"I didn't mind." The need to touch him overrode her instinct to draw into herself. She laid one hand across his forearm. "I wanted you to be happy."

The smile that twisted his lips wasn't genuine. "I wanted to be happy, too."

Booth stared at her hand, at the heat of it burning through the fine cotton of his sleeve, and then covered it with his. His thumb stroked across her knuckles.

"It's not the right time," he muttered. And it wasn't. He was as certain of that as he was sure that, regardless of the bad timing, he was about to take an irrevocable step. He looked up, jaw clenched, into silver eyes rimmed in blue and flecked with green. "Don't run away, okay? Don't disappear to . . . to . . . Mumbopeecho or whatever."

The faint attempt at humor fell flat. A small vertical line appeared between her eyebrows. "I'm not familiar with that location."

"I love you."

She flinched. Booth saw it and despite the roaring of blood in his ears, he heard the small sound she made when she jerked her hand away as if jolted by electricity.

"Bones -"

Brennan shook her head, trying to clear it of the words that rang over and and over again. Her eyes were over-bright but steady on his and only someone who knew her well would notice the tremor in her voice.

Booth knew her very well.

"You and Hannah . . . you said she wasn't a consolation prize. You said . . ."

"I know what I said. And she wasn't . . . but she wasn't you, either. It took me too long to realize that." He leaned forward but held the impulse to reach for her in check. "Please don't run away," he said again. "Please don't leave." She had before and that she might do so again, before he had a chance to make everything right, terrified him.

Immobilized, frozen, Brennan stared at him, chest heaving under rapid, shallow breaths. She didn't understand. He was supposed to help her understand and instead . . .

"You don't have to do anything." Booth's voice was soft, a rough whisper that sounded like a shout in the quiet office. "You don't have to say anything. I don't expect . . ." His chin jerked once. A muscle jumped in his neck. "I just had to tell you. I had to say it at least once. I didn't say it . . . before . . . and maybe if I had . . ."

_Just give it a chance! That's all I'm asking!_

The words rang between them like the pealing of church bells.

"I know it's not the right time." His hands closed into fists on his knees. It was the only way to stop himself from reaching for her and she'd bolt if he tried to touch her. He could see that much. "It's not. It's . . . not. You need time. I need time. I need to fix . . . Hannah, that was . . . that was bad. I need to fix that, if I can. But . . . please don't leave." He had no right to ask, let alone beg, but he did both. "Just stay and . . . please, don't leave."

It was too much. The walls were closing in, suffocating and heavy, solidifying the air until every breath was painful. Brennan shot to her feet.

"I have to go."

Booth stood up, too, helplessly reaching out to her. "Bones . . ."

She rushed out, hurrying toward the stairs instead of the elevator.

He let her go.

.

.

* * *

_I'm sorry for the long delay between chapters. I am obviously shit at writing two stories at once and finishing up _Roots and Wings_ is taking up a lot of real estate in my head right now. Regardless, I'll try to make the wait for the next chapter shorter._

_What I wanted to do with this story was take the main bullet points of the proposal (the proposal, the ring throw, Hannah contacting Brennan and Brennan running to Booth), give them a twist and use them to tell a different story that would end up in the same general place. This chapter finishes the first part of that plan and how well I did with it, I'll leave up to you. But from here on out, as Dumbledore would say, we're pursuing that flighty temptress, adventure. Yee haw. :-) _

_Thanks for reading._


	13. A Man in Black

Brennan left without her coat, so agitated that she didn't notice it slipping from her lap when she jumped to her feet to flee Booth's office. Outside, the first gust of icy wind was a rude jolt but she merely walked faster. Turning back wasn't an option.

She'd gone to Booth for answers, expecting him to make sense of the confused jumble of thoughts whirling in her mind like debris tossed by the wind. Instead of helping, he'd made it worse.

"_I love you."_

The words repeated themselves in a loop, side by side with the unusually haggard lines of his face and the burning intensity in his eyes. So, too, did another memory, one that snuffed out the small spark of hope lit by his confession.

"_I'm with someone, Bones. And Hannah? She's not a consolation prize. I love her. Those are the facts."_

Brennan shook her head as if doing so would settle her thoughts into reasonable order. Instead, the ground continued to shift beneath her feet.

"_I love you."  
_"_I love her. Those are the facts." _

"_I love you."  
_"_I love her. Those are the facts." _

"_I love her. Those are the facts." _

"_I love you."_

"Temperance? Temperance?"

The hand grasping her arm brought Brennan back into the present, and to the realization that she'd stopped in the middle of a sidewalk crowded with mid-day pedestrians rushing from one place to another, forcing them to swerve around her as they hurried to get out of the frigid February weather. She glanced from the fingers lying against her sleeve into the concerned dark eyes of a priest.

For a moment, his identity was lost somewhere in her dazed and bewildered state of mind until with a blink, it was there again. "Paul!'

A frown marred his forehead as he looked her over. "Are you alright, Temperance? Is something wrong? Where is your coat?"

He didn't wait for an answer but shrugged out of the heavy trenchcoat he wore over his suit and draped it across her shoulders. Brennan accepted it gratefully, drawing it closed around her neck with fingers gone stiff from the cold. Her teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. Father Paul wrapped an arm around around her waist and turned her toward a coffee shop just yards away.

"You're frozen. Let's get a hot drink inside you and get you warmed up."

The shop was warm and aromatic with the scent of coffee and fresh-baked pastries. Hunched into his coat, Brennan said nothing and allowed Father Paul to push her into one side of an open booth before he strode to the counter. When he returned with a steaming mug, she accepted it with a murmur of appreciation.

"Thank you."

"Of course."

That was all he said, although she felt his eyes studying her over the rim of his own cup as he drank. Color returned to her cheeks in bright spots of red that stood out sharply against her otherwise too-pale complexion. Unnerved by his steady regard, Brennan slipped her arms from his coat and tried to pass it over the table. He declined it with a wave of one hand.

"You keep it," he said, with a smile meant to put her at ease. "The rectory is a bit closer than your lab - if that's where you're headed?" She nodded and he continued with a teasing lilt. "This way, you'll have a reason to visit me again. I've missed our discussions."

Reminded of his relationship with Booth, Brennan's expression shuttered. She folded the coat with far more care than needed and placed it on the seat next to her.

When Father Paul continued, his voice was so casual even she recognized it as false. "Isn't that funny. I was just telling Seeley the same thing when he stopped by the church yesterday. I understand that he and Ms. Burley will be getting married soon."

Brennan hesitated briefly, then shook her head. The priest was someone she trusted, someone who had become a friend over the hours spent in lively debate while Booth was in confession. She reached for her coffee again, propping her elbows on the table and cradling the still warm cup in both hands as she stared into the inky depths without drinking.

"No. The wedding has been called off. Booth called it off." A long silence followed before she added, "He said he loves me."

"Ahh."

That single syllable pulled Brennan's eyes to his. She saw concern there, but nothing else.

"You aren't surprised."

The smile Father Paul gave her was gentle. "Temperance, you and Seeley are equally as brilliant in your own different ways but when it comes to each other, you're also equally as blind. No, I'm not surprised."

The coffee cup clattered into its saucer when she set it down with more force than necessary.

"I don't understand," she cried. Her voice was thin and tight, signaling the brittleness of the composure she held herself in. Her hands clenched into fists lying on the table. "He told me he loved Hannah. He told me that repeatedly. They were . . . very affectionate. I was . . . I was happy for him."

She looked anything but happy at the moment. Tears glimmered and then disappeared when she blinked them away.

"How can he now say that he loves me? Is love so ephemeral? That contradicts everything he's said, every argument he's made in the years I've known him. I am not a student of psychology but the law of non-contradiction clearly states that a fact cannot be true and untrue simultaneously."

Father Paul covered one of those tight fists with an open hand and looked at her with sympathy. "Love is not subject to the laws of man, Temperance. Even if that man is Aristotle."

The answer wasn't helpful. When she merely sighed and shook her head, the priest gave her hand a squeeze and then sat back. Deep in thought, he sipped from his coffee while Brennan waited.

"People like to describe love as a rubber band. Our hearts stretch, they say, to make room for everyone we love. I disagree." His voice was deep and rich, with a vibrancy that was almost hypnotic. His gaze was steady, and held Brennan's with an honesty that reinforced the truth of his beliefs. "Love is not elastic, it's infinite. Like the universe, love is without boundaries, and like the universe holds people and planets and all the stars in the sky, love holds all that we feel. A parent for a child. A friend for a friend. A man for a woman. Sometimes that's messy," he acknowledged. "The world was created from chaos, and that's true whether you believe in one big explosion or that it was God who lit the fuse. How could we expect anything else from something as great and terrible as love?"

Brennan played with the handle of her cup while she considered his words. The image was one she could understand, even if she didn't quite accept the principle behind it. She attempted a smile. "You sound very knowledgeable for a man whose profession called him to celibacy."

"I was married once. I had a wife and two young sons." The surprising confession brought her head up; Father Paul answered the obvious follow-up question before she could ask it. "Traffic accident." He smiled, but it was tinged with sad memories. "Strange word, isn't it? _Accident_, for a fraction of time that changes your life forever."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

The words came almost by rote, but Brennan meant them sincerely and it showed. She looked at the man she'd known only as a religious authority with new insight.

"Thank you. It was a long time before I found peace, and longer still before I let myself be healed enough to follow the path God laid out for me. It's been almost thirty years and still I have moments of weakness and anger."

He reached across the table and grasped both of her hands with his.

"I don't have the answers you're looking for, Temperance. Only Seeley can tell you what's in his heart, and only you know what's in yours."

She tried to smile again but the slumped shoulders and bowed head told a different story. "I find this all very confusing."

Father Paul tightened his grip on her fingers.

"Chaos creates confusion, until someone tames it and creates order. That's your task now, yours and Seeley's. What will you create out of this chaos you find yourselves in?"

It was yet another question for which Brennan didn't have an answer.


	14. Fight or Flight

Angela bombarded her with questions, starting with the strange coat that swallowed up her slender frame and moving rapidly to Booth. What he'd said. How he'd said it.

Brennan steadfastly refused to satisfy her curiosity. With Booth's words and those of Father Paul ringing in her head, she needed time to process the confusion of her own thoughts without the influence of her best friend's strong opinions. Wanting nothing more than solitude, she sought distraction and refuge where she'd always found it - in her work.

The bones of Wendy Bovitz, now cleaned of blood and tissue, awaited her examination. The symmetry of laying them out on the under-lit table in the bone room was almost a dance, and as she put the pieces of the human-shaped puzzle into place, the easy familiarity of the act was as welcome as a brief moment of rest in the midst of battle. Almost gratefully, she cleared her mind of anything but the skeletal form in front of her.

Her co-workers left her in peace until Cam approached late in the afternoon, her usual brisk, business-like pace replaced by the slower, hesitant echo of heels tapping on the floor. When Brennan didn't look up, she cleared her throat with a soft cough.

"Dr. Hodgins said it will be tomorrow morning before he has the results back on the trace found on the bones."

Still not looking at her, Brennan picked up one curved rib and studied the jagged edges of the break in question. "Has Angela been able to find a weapon that matches her composite?"

"Not yet. When we know what it was made of, that will help."

"Hmmm." Brennan looked toward the hand with the broken finger. Her peripheral vision caught Angela slipping into the room beside Cam. "The fracture of the articular capsule suggests a struggle."

"Well, if the murder weapon was something the victim already had on-site, it could have been a crime of opportunity."

"Motive is Booth's purview. Our duty as empirical scientists is to answer how, not why."

The short, crisp tones were enhanced by the very precise way in which Brennan returned the rib to its rightful place in the skeleton. Cam and Angela exchanged a worried glance.

"Dr. Brennan . . ." Cam took a short, hesitant step forward. "I've known Booth for a long time. If I can help in any way - -"

Brennan's head came up. Jaw tense, her chin jutted forward. "I don't believe your sexual relationship with Booth is relevant at the moment."

Cam blinked with shock. "Wow. That is . . . not at all what I meant."

Even Angela was taken aback by Brennan's abrupt response. "Honey, I understand you're upset but she's just offering to help - -"

"How?" If possible, Brennan grew even more stiff. She faced both women with eyes that glittered from the strain she was under. "How is Dr. Saroyan qualified to help? She's had no more success in her romantic life than I."

"Excuse me, but it's not my love life that's in shambles at the moment. May I remind you that I have someone!" Still reeling from Brennan's earlier remark, Cam's tone was perhaps sharper than it might otherwise have been; when the other woman flinched, she took a deep breath in an attempt to regain her composure. "I'm sorry, that was unprofessional of me . . ."

The sympathy was suddenly more than Brennan could take. Giving them both a wide berth, she headed for the exit, shrugging out of her lab coat as she went.

"I'm going home. Don't let anyone disturb these remains."

"Brennan . . ."

Angela's helpless cry went unheeded. She and Cam watched in dismay as Brennan marched away.

Cam sighed. "You know, I miss the days when all I had to worry about around here was keeping Zack and Dr. Hodgins from blowing everything up."

.

.

.

There were no answers to be found in her empty apartment. Instead, more questions rose on voices that grew ever more shrill. Booth's utter confidence in the strength of love played in her head next to the many times he'd insisted that he loved Hannah, interrupted again and again by that moment in his office this morning.

"_I love you." _

She considered - very briefly - calling Sweets and then took matters into her own hands by delving into research online on love and relationships. Most of what she found she dismissed as the type of babble Sweets might have offered had she reached out to him, and the rest of the links led to information that was similarly unhelpful. Booth seemed an unlikely proponent of polyamory and her own brief attempt to maintain relationships with two men simultaneously had not ended well.

"_There's someone for everyone, someone you're meant to spend the rest of your life with . . . You just have to be open enough to see it."_

That's what Booth had said to her when she'd talked about feeling the sting of rejection. She'd wanted to believe him then. She wanted to believe him now.

It was well after midnight when she gave up and went to bed. Sleep, however, proved as difficult to find as answers. When her phone beeped with hours left before sunrise, she was still awake.

She knew it was Booth before the name on the screen confirmed it.

"Hello?"

"Bones. You're there." The relief in his voice was audible.

She sat up, knees bent close to her chest, and stared into the moonlit shadows of her bedroom. "I'm home, yes. It's almost 3:00 am. Where else would I be?"

"I don't know . . . on a plane over the Pacific maybe." He laughed but the forced humour in the sound was obvious even to her. "I didn't realize it was so late. Did I wake you up?"

It didn't occur to her to lie.

"No. Sleep has been elusive." She heard a rhythmic tapping coming from his end of the call, a fast-paced, almost anxious sound, and pictured him hunched over the breakfast bar in his apartment, rapping the poker chip he always carried against the counter. She didn't know how accurate the vision was.

"I couldn't sleep either." There was a long pause during which they merely listened to each other breathe. "You left your coat in my office. I didn't notice right away and when I ran out, I didn't see you. Did you catch a cab?"

"No, I ran into Father Paul and he insisted I wear his."

Another one of those humourless laughs crossed the line. "Huh. Isn't that funny. I just saw him, too."

"Yes, he mentioned it." Her next words came out before she could stop them. "I don't understand what's happening, Booth. I don't . . . understand."

Booth jumped on the confession before she could retreat from it. "I know," he said quickly, and rushed to reassure her. "And . . . and that's my fault, okay, Bones? It's not you. It's me. I handled it all wrong. Everything. You. Hannah . . ." He sighed, and the sound was so heavy she almost felt the touch of his breath. "Just let me fix it, alright? At least let me try. Don't run away. Okay? Please."

Brennan frowned into the darkness. He'd said something similar earlier that afternoon and the repetition struck a nerve. "Why do you keep asking me not to run away?"

If he heard the irritation in the question, he didn't acknowledge it. "Because that's what you do. If things get tough you find some moldy set of bones somewhere and run off to look at them!"

"That is not true!" Her voice rose, echoing in the emptiness of her bedroom.

"You ran off to Maluku a year ago!" he shot back.

"I accepted that position _after_ you told me you were returning to active duty! If anyone was running away, it was you!"

Booth was silent for almost a full minute. "Okay," he admitted finally. "Okay. I guess we both suck at this. But let's just agree that no matter what, we won't run away this time. No matter what happens, we won't leave. We'll stick around and we'll deal with it."

"My work frequently involves travel," Brennan pointed out stubbornly. "I can't promise . . ."

Booth wouldn't play the game. "Bones, you know what I mean. We won't run away from us."

"If there is an us."

She didn't see him flinch but she did hear the silence that stretched out for so long, she thought the connection had been lost. Suddenly, she was exhausted.

"I think I can sleep now. Goodnight, Booth."

"Goodnight. I . . . I guess we'll talk later?"

"That's likely. I should have more information for you on the murder weapon in the Bovitz case."

"Right. The case. I almost forgot about the case." The fast, rhythmic tapping was back.

"Goodnight, Booth."

"'night."


	15. What Love Isn't

To: Booth, Seeley J.  
From: Brennan, Dr. Temperance

Dear Booth:

Attached please find results from the chemical analysis of the trace particles found in the fracture of Wendy Bovits' left anterior fourth and fifth ribs.

Please let me know if you have any questions.

Best regards,  
Temperance Brennan, Ph.D.

* * *

To: Brennan, Dr. Temperance  
From: Booth, Seeley J.

I don't speak squint, remember? Of course I have questions. You've been sending me these things for almost seven years. Why do I still have to ask you to explain them?

B.

* * *

To: Booth, Seeley J.  
From: Brennan, Dr. Temperance

Dear Booth:

Yes, I am aware that you "don't speak squint," especially given your fondness for repeating that phrase _ad nauseum. Ad nauseum_, by the way, is Latin which, unlike 'squint,' is an actual (albeit no longer commonly spoken) language.

I digress.

The explanation for Dr. Hodgins' findings is on the legend of the third graph. Did you not see it?

Please let me know if you have any further questions.

Best regards,  
Temperance Brennan, Ph.D.

* * *

To: Brennan, Dr. Temperance  
From: Booth, Seeley J.

There are six graphs in the attachment you sent. No, I didn't notice the legend on the third one. But no problem. I'll just print it out, put it in front of the suspect and tell him that's why he's guilty. That should work.

B.

* * *

To: Booth, Seeley J.  
From: Brennan, Dr. Temperance

Booth:

I wasn't aware that you had a suspect. Who is it?

(I think you should be prepared to discuss the basis for a charge of murder. Your suspect's attorney will require more information than the printed page with Figure No. 3.)

Sincerely,  
Temperance Brennan, Ph.D.

* * *

To: Brennan, Dr. Temperance  
From: Booth, Seeley J

I don't have a suspect. I could have a suspect, if I knew what the hell the murder weapon was made of. Which I would know, if you would just tell me instead of making me jump through hoops.

B.

* * *

To: Booth, Seeley J.  
From: Brennan, Dr. Temperance

The weapon is made of cast iron.

Brennan

* * *

To: Brennan, Dr. Temperance  
From: Booth, Seeley J

THANK YOU.

B.

* * *

To: Brennan, Dr. Temperance  
From: Booth, Seeley J

Bones:

I'm sorry for snapping at you. Thank you for getting these test results to me so fast. Warren Erickson made his money in shelving and cast iron could come into play there. I'm going to have a chat with him this afternoon. If you'd like to come with me, I'd appreciate your input.

Can I buy you lunch to make up for my bad mood? We could go from there to meet with Erickson.

Booth

* * *

To: Booth, Seeley J.  
From: Brennan, Dr. Temperance

Dear Booth:

Thank you for the apology.

I would be happy to discuss the case with you over lunch, but I would prefer to pay for my own meal. I will meet you at the diner at 11:40 am.

Best regards,  
Temperance Brennan, Ph.D.

* * *

.

He was already sitting at the table by the window when she arrived, but stood up when she entered the restaurant buffeted by a blast of icy wind that almost drowned out the cheerful bells hanging over the door. A knit cap covered her head, pressing her bangs low against her brow and leaving the rest of her hair to hang over the scarf tucked into the collar of a thick woolen coat. As she approached, Booth studied her face carefully, taking note of the violet smudges under her eyes and the pale color of her skin beneath the faint hint of pink left by the cold.

"You should have let me pick you up." He remained standing while she unwrapped herself from the warm layers and laid them over an empty chair, along with her gloves and a large, flat brown envelope. She left the knit cap on; the color, a pale gray threaded with streaks of blue, matched the flash of her eyes when she smiled gratefully at the waitress and the steaming mug of coffee she offered.

"I enjoyed the walk. It was brisk." Taking her seat, Brennan appraised him with the same level of scrutiny. His eyes, too, were ringed with shadows that matched the scruff of unshaven beard that didn't quite hide the new hollowness of his cheeks. Paired with the severity of a plain black suit, the look was almost funereal.

Booth sat when she did, and waited while she placed her lunch order. His crooked grin was hesitant when he joked, "Brisk? Is that what they're calling frostbite these days?"

Brennan took the comment seriously. "Oh, I was in no danger of frostbite. I dressed appropriately for the weather, and the length of time required to traverse the distance between the lab and this restaurant is well within safety limits."

She was so earnest, he couldn't help laughing. "Well, that's good to know. I'll stop worrying about your toes."

Brennan laughed, too, and for a moment, the gentle teasing smoothed away the hyper-awareness they shared. The stiff and brittle politeness that characterized their interactions over the last few days faded. They smiled at each other, happy and at ease, while the bustling diner disappeared.

On impulse, Booth reached across the table and covered her hand with his. "Bones, I - -"

The arrival of lunch was a crashing jolt of reality. Brennan pulled her hand away, her bright smile gone, and deliberately turned her attention to the hot bowl of soup now in front of her. Shoulders slumped, Booth watched, helpless and defeated, as she stirred precisely even circles and avoided his gaze with a determined concentration unwarranted by the simple meal. With no other choice, he picked up half of the turkey club sandwich he no longer wanted.

Minutes passed while they pretended to eat, surrounded by a cloud of silence as chilly as the air outside. Then they both spoke at once.

"So, the ex-husband - -"

"I have copies - -"

Seeing Brennan reach for the envelope, Booth waved a hand for her to continue.

"I brought copies of the charts I emailed this morning." With brisk efficiency, she pulled them out, along with another, larger image of the murder weapon. "Angela also updated her rendering of the instrument used to kill Wendy Bovitz. I thought it might be useful when we meet with Mr. Erickson."

"Yea, maybe we'll get lucky and find one of whatever this is laying around, right?" This time, the attempt at humour sounded forced, and fell flat.

"Is he your prime suspect?" Brennan pushed the barely-touched bowl of soup away and folded her hands on the table.

Booth shrugged. "We'll see. A lot of people I've talked to seem to hate the guy but that doesn't mean he's a killer. The story the victim's husband told me about her ex checks out so unless he somehow rose from the dead . . ."

"Which isn't possible," Brennan pointed out, not altogether helpfully.

"Which isn't possible." Once upon a time, he might have taken the opportunity to make a quip about Jesus Christ. In return, she might have rattled off a 10-minute lecture on religion and mythology, leading him to express an exaggerated frustration about her lack of tolerance. It would have been a silly argument, one that ended as quick as it began. Those _once upon a time_ days now seemed forever lost.

That thought brought physical pain. Booth instinctively leaned toward her. "Bones . . ."

There was a desperate edge to his voice that was obvious even to him, so he wasn't surprised that she heard it, too. She stared across the table, her eyes huge and wary beneath the fringe of dark bangs.

A crash of dishes from the kitchen only yards away reminded him that they were in the middle of a busy diner. Not even sure what he planned to say, Booth swallowed the words anyway and tried to smile.

"Thanks for having lunch with me."

A hint of something that might have been disappointment crossed her face, but was quickly erased.

"You're welcome." The waitress appeared to take away their still-full plates and refill their coffee. When she was gone, Brennan lifted one shoulder in a dainty gesture of dismissal. "As it happens, I'm glad to be away from the lab. Dr. Saroyan is . . . rather tense at the moment." When Booth raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question, she elaborated. "Valentine's Day. Dr. Lidner has apparently gone to a great deal of trouble to celebrate the holiday with her, so she's determined to have work on the case reach a point where it can be stopped without difficulty."

A day to celebrate lovers was the last thing Booth wanted to think about. He made a face. "It's not a holiday. The banks don't even close."

Brennan was quick to agree. "That's true. It hardly has the most romantic of origins. Did you know that the head of one of the early Saint Valentine's was preserved in an abbey in Winchester?"

He did not, but found her knowledge of that obscure fact oddly charming. He hid it behind a grimace. "That's disgusting."

She shrugged again. "I simply find it odd that a day meant to commemorate romantic love coincides with so many historical events that have nothing to do with romance. Alexander Graham Bell applied for a patent for the telephone on February 14. Henry IV was excommunicated on February 14. James Cook was killed by natives on the island of Hawaii on February 14 . . ."

"Oh!" Booth came up with his own piece of trivia. He pretend to hold an invisible machine gun, aiming at her and letting his arms bounce as if he were shooting it across the table at her. "Saint Valentine's Day Massacre, right? Al Capone?"

His child-like enthusiasm finally earned him another smile. "Exactly my point. There's nothing romantic about mass murder."

Before he could talk himself out of it, Booth leaned in toward her again and let an idea spill out of his mouth. "Maybe we could get a couple of those Tommy guns from the museum? You think? We could take them to the gun range on Friday and celebrate the Saint Valentine's Day Massacre instead of . . . " Warning sirens clanged in his brain but he was unable to stop the flow of words. ". . . you know, love."

The word hung between them. Brennan's smile disappeared. Booth felt the drop in temperature like a cold wind blowing through an open window.

"I couldn't remove anything from the museum without permission," she said stiffly. "Besides, I'm sure those weapons were rendered inoperable before they were put on display. For safety purposes."

Mentally kicking himself for the error in judgment, Booth straightened and adopted a casual attitude that didn't fool either of them. "Right. Yea, I'm sure you're right. Can't have live weapons on display. You know, for insurance reasons."

In unison, they reached for what was now ice cold coffee and unknowingly made the same expression of distaste after taking a drink. Booth sat his cup down, looked at his watch and pretended surprise.

"Look at the time! I guess we better get going if we're going to talk to Erickson."

.

.

.

The drive was tense, filled with short stretches of painful conversation and long minutes heavy with an even more painful silence. The bustling activity of a house in the throes of preparations for an impending wedding was a relief.

Both Erickson and his daughter Raina, the bride-to-be, proved to be as difficult and unpleasant as Darren Hargrove had implied. Halfway through their conversation, Brennan stepped away to take a call.

"Dr. Saroyan found DNA under the victim's fingernails," she said to Booth when she returned. She turned to Warren Erickson. "I'm need to take a sample from either you or your daughter for comparison."

Erickson merely sneered. "Do I look stupid to you?"

Brennan's head tilted as she gave his question serious consideration. "Appearance is an inexact method of measuring intelligence."

Her matter-of-fact reply took him by surprise but Erickson quickly recovered. "Well, let me just tell you that I'm not stupid. And if you want a DNA sample from either me or my daughter, you call my lawyer."

He stomped away.

.

.

.

Complaining about Erickson and his behavior made the conversation on the way back easier than it had been on the outbound journey. All too soon, however, Booth pulled into the fire lane at the rear entrance of the Jeffersonian. Before he could put the SUV into park, Brennan had her door open and was on the sidewalk. After a very formal "thank you for allowing me to accompany you to the interview," she walked away.

He waited until she was gone from view before he dropped his head on the steering wheel.

Back at the Hoover, he locked himself in his own office and spent an hour on mindless paperwork that did nothing to distract him from the roiling uncertainty of his own thoughts, and the fear that he might be unable to heal the breach between them.

Unable to sit still, he pushed back from his desk and strode to the window. His reflection, faint and transparent, stared back. Despite telling himself that it would take time . . . despite knowing that it was too soon to expect a different reaction . . . despite a never-ending refrain beating in his head that Brennan was as methodical in her personal life as she was in her work . . . despite his absolute conviction - his hope - that her feelings for him remained . . .

" _. . . if you crack that shell and then change your mind, she'll die of loneliness before she'll ever trust anyone again . . ."_

He rested his forehead against the cold glass as the weight of his mistakes swamped over him.

"Dad!"

He turned in surprise on hearing Parker's voice. Rebecca was there, too, her sharp gaze focused on him.

"We knocked," she said. "I guess you didn't hear us." She held a black duffle bag in one hand and a zipped nylon garment bag in the other.

Booth welcomed the distraction of his son. He held out one hand to stop Parker from racing in for a hug. The boy was filthy, layered with mud on one side of his body and striped with grass stains on the other.

"Whoa! Did you have soccer practice this afternoon or did you try out for the mud wrestling team?"

"I think it was a little of both." Rebecca lifted the garment bag she carried to get Booth's attention, then hooked it on an arm of the coat rack. "It's picture day tomorrow. I know he has uniforms at your house but this one is clean and ironed. Make sure he wears it."

Parker grimaced, wholly uninterested in anything related to school the next day. He stuck one hand out, palm up. "Can I have some money for the snack machines? I'm starving!"

Booth dutifully reached for his wallet and pulled out several singles. "No junk food. Get crackers or pretzels or something like that, okay?"

As Parker dashed out of the room, Rebecca let the duffle bag holding his overnight belongings drop to the floor. "You look like hell. Is something wrong?"

"Just tired, that's all. Thanks for bringing Parker to me." Quick to change the subject, he nodded toward the garment bag. "I'll make sure he's ready for pictures tomorrow."

"Hmm." Rebecca obviously wasn't convinced but the days were long past when she could insist he confide in her. Shrugging it off as his business, she glanced over her shoulder at the still-empty doorway then took a step closer and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't tell him I told you but . . ." Her eyes sparkled with merriment. "He has a girlfriend. Her name is Ashley."

That surprising bit of news helped Booth push his own problems to the background. "Really?" When he grinned, Rebecca grinned back.

"Really! He wants to take her to the movies on Friday." She rolled her eyes in a bit of maternal amusement. "Brent and I are going to chaperone. Not quite the way we had planned on spending Valentine's Day but . . ."

"Why don't I take them?" He jumped at the chance to avoid spending the upcoming Valentine's Day alone with his thoughts. "Parker can stay with me the whole weekend."

Rebecca hesitated. "Are you sure? Do you want to check with Hannah first? She might not want to spend her Valentine's Day with a ten-year-old in the apartment." When Booth glanced away, her eyes narrowed on him suspiciously. "What's going on?"

Booth ran an uncomfortable hand down his tie, then set his jaw and faced her straight on. "That's over. Hannah and I, we're . . . Well, that's over."

Mouth open, she stared at him in surprise, and then sympathy. "Oh, Seeley. I'm sorry. I didn't know." She studied his haggard appearance with genuine concern. "Are you okay?"

"Yea, I'm fine." The lie crossed his lips easily. "It happened a few days ago, so . . . I'll tell Parker tonight."

A look flashed across Rebecca's face. Her lips opened and then closed. As quick as she was to change her mind, though, she wasn't quite fast enough.

Booth was immediately defensive. "What?"

They'd known each other too long for her to pretend innocence. "It's none of my business. I just . . . Well," she shrugged, "It took longer than I thought it would for her to realize you're in love with Temperance."

Booth froze, then turned his back on her and retreated to his desk. "You're right. It's none of your business."

Rebecca watched him straighten folders and pens and move paper from one stack to another until she couldn't stand it any longer. She stopped him by grabbing one of his hands, then waited quietly until his eyes rose to meet hers.

"You know that I care about you, don't you? I know things haven't always been . . . great . . . between us in the past but we share a child. For Parker's sake, if nothing else, I want you to be happy. I mean that."

Booth looked off toward the window. Light glittered off the sheen of moisture in his eyes. She noticed and squeezed his fingers.

"Why don't you just tell Temperance how you feel?"

For one long minute, she thought he would ignore her.

"I did." When he finally spoke, the words came out between lips that barely moved. "I tried, anyway. It didn't . . . it didn't go well. And then she went off to that island and I went overseas and met Hannah and . . ."

"And you took the easy way out." Rebecca sighed and gave his hand another quick squeeze. "Well, maybe now you can try again. Does she know - -"

Parker's return brought an end to the conversation. Booth put the emotional moment aside, assumed a mock-frown and snatched the bright plastic bag out of his son's hands. "Chocolate covered pretzels?"

Oblivious to the undercurrents running between his parents, Parker grabbed it back and grinned with irrepressible good humour. "You said get pretzels, right?"

With no other recourse, Rebecca followed Booth's lead. She ruffled Parker's curls and pressed her lips against his forehead. "Smarty pants. Make sure you use shampoo on your hair tonight, Okay? Don't just wet it down and call it washed. And smile for your picture tomorrow, okay?"

Parker stood patiently under the maternal cosseting, accepting yet more last-minute instructions and another kiss on the cheek before his mother was finally ready to leave. On impulse, she threw her arms around Booth and hugged him, too.

When they were finally alone, Booth plucked a pretzel out of the almost empty bag in his son's hand and perched one hip on the end of his desk.

"So . . . tell me about Ashley."

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The Bovitz case broke the next day. DNA already on record confirmed an altercation between Raina Erickson and Wendy Bovitz, but Raina's alibi - a raucous bachelorette party held on the night Wendy was killed - held up. When Darren Hargrove was brought in to be questioned after Angela found an agreement giving him 50% of the murdered woman's business, Booth found his alibi equally as solid.

Disappointment only spurred Angela to dig deeper. It was late afternoon when she rushed into Brennan's office, carrying her own laptop.

"I know who killed Wendy Bovitz!" Without asking permission, she shoved Brennan's keyboard aside to make room for her computer. A few rapid keystrokes later and lines of indecipherable computer text crawled across the screen.

Brennan studied it curiously. "What am I looking at?"

Angela smiled triumphantly. "Proof that the victim's husband used her computer minutes before time of death."

"We already know he was there. According to Booth's field report, Greg Bovitz admitted to being in the residence that day," Brennan pointed out.

"Okay, but did he mention that he also checked his wife's email while he was there?" Angela touched the screen with a tip of one fingernail. "Right there. Barely twenty seconds after his personal email account closed, her's opened - and it didn't close again for 17 minutes. It had to be him."

Brennan's head swiveled as she looked up at her friend and coworker. "If he read her email, he would have discovered that she gave away half her business to another man."

Smug and sure, Angela nodded. "Sounds like motive to me."

"I'll call Booth. You can explain everything - - " Brennan was already reaching for her phone when she noticed Angela backing away.

"Uh uh. I'll send you my report and you can explain it to him."

Brennan eyed the stubborn face with disapproval. "Angela . . ."

"Hey, I'm still mad at him," Angela said. "You talk to him. I'm not going to."

"You're being childish."

Angela shrugged, sublimely unconcerned. "Yea, well, I'm pregnant. Blame it on the hormones." She patted the burgeoning swell of her belly and walked out of the office, throwing a casual "I'll send you my report," over her shoulder as she left.

Brennan kept Angela's fit of temper to herself when she spoke to Booth, sticking to a crisp recitation of the facts as she relayed the new information. Unwittingly, he repeated Angela's exact words.

"Sounds like motive to me. I'll have a couple of uniforms bring him in." There was a brief pause before he added, "You want to sit in on the interview?"

Brennan's hesitation lasted only a few seconds longer. "Yes. I do."

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Despite the relatively early hour, Greg Bovitz had been drinking and reacted to being dragged into FBI headquarters with profane belligerence. Booth and Brennan watched from the other side of a two-way mirror as he shifted restlessly in the uncomfortable, straight-backed chair brought in specifically for his use. Dirty, ragged fingernails tapped against the hard surface of the table in front of him in a rough, unsteady rhythm. Every so often, he could be heard muttering to himself.

"That's a guilty man right there." Booth's voice was quiet in the solitude of the small antechamber.

"So the evidence would suggest." Brennan glanced at him, standing tall and straight beside her. "How much longer are you going to leave him in solitude?"

Booth shrugged. "A few more minutes. He's been living with the guilt for a week. Right now, the voices in his head are doing my job for me. Give him a little more time and he'll start talking just to drown them out."

Brennan turned back to Greg Bovitz, who was once again mumbling under his breath. "You're very good at this."

This time, it was Booth who risked a quick look at her. His jaw was tight when he finally reached for the handle on the door that led into the interrogation room.

"Well, at least that's one thing."

Bovitz shot to his feet when they appeared, causing his chair to wobble precipitously before it finally steadied on all four legs. The earthy smell of horses, mixed with whiskey and human sweat surrounded him. "I didn't do anything! You can't keep me here!"

"Sit down."

Booth's sharp tone brooked no opposition as he tossed a thick file on the table. Not so inebriated that he didn't recognize danger when he heard it, Greg Bovitz immediately sat. Across from him, Booth and Brennan did the same.

Booth opened the file to a photo of Wendy Bovitz' body as it had been discovered lying in the tanning bed. He turned the image toward the suspect and tapped it with one finger.

"You did that."

Bovitz stared in horror at the picture, then turned his head away, visibly swallowing. "Did not."

"You did that," Booth said again. He slid the photo to the left until it was within Bovitz' line of vision again. "You did that to your wife, a woman you swore to love and cherish."

Bovitz dropped his head into his hands, hiding his eyes from view. A ragged, tear-filled breath was heard. "I don't know what you're talking about. You can't prove anything."

Booth laughed; the sound, totally devoid of humour, echoed in the room.

"Buddy, you have no idea what I can prove. My partner here has a team of geniuses - -"

"And Angela."

Brennan's interruption almost cracked Booth's deliberately grim demeanor. With effort, he managed to keep the amusement from showing in his face. "My partner has a team of geniuses and one really smart computer geek who have already given me all the proof I need. Why do you think you're here?"

Bovitz was shaking his head, his eyes still hidden. "No."

"Yes." Booth was implacable. "What happened? You found out she was going to give away the company, didn't you? You had an argument? Is that it? What did you do, push her? Maybe slap her around a little? Did it go too far? Maybe she told you she didn't want to be your wife anymore . . ."

"SHUT UP!" Bovitz jumped to his feet again. He trembled where he stood, fists clenched, tears streaming. "YOU DON'T KNOW! She loved me! Me! It was . . . it was him! That other guy, that Hargrove! He took advantage of her! She loved me!"

Booth simply stared back. "Then why did you kill her?"

"I didn't," Bovitz said. Then he dropped back into the chair. "I didn't mean to. It was an accident . . . I grabbed the cake topper . . . she said it cost $5,000 and . . ."

Across from him, Booth and Brennan met each other's eyes. "Cake topper," Brennan mouthed.

Bovitz was still lost in a personal hell.

"She said she loved me," he whimpered. "That's what she said. She promised . . . And then she said she loved him, too." Without warning, he shot to his feet, fury replacing tears. "BITCH! SHE LIED TO ME! Nobody loves two people at the same time! She was playing me! Like I'm stupid! I'm not stupid! She got what she deserved! I just wanted her to love me." He collapsed one more, laid his head on the table and sobbed.

Booth heard Brennan's indrawn breath and felt her stiffen beside him. When he glanced over, her face was carefully free of expression.

Without meeting his eyes, she stood up and backed away from the table.

"I'll send someone to the crime scene to collect any of the cake toppers that fit the description of the murder weapon."

"Bones . . ." He reached out to her, only to see her flinch away.

"When we find the one he used, I'll let you know."

"Bones . . ."

Helpless, Booth could only watch as she slipped out of the room.

He forgot Bovitz was there until the man began to talk again.

"It was an accident, I swear to God. I loved her. I did. Don't put me in jail. Please don't put me in jail."

Booth stomped around the table, hauled him to his feet and cuffed his hands behind his back, then shoved him forward in an unsteady duckwalk toward the door.

"You're lucky I don't put you under the goddamn jail, asshole. You have the right to remain silent . . ."

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* * *

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_Details from the episode have (obviously) been changed to fit the story I want to tell. Also, February 14, 2011 was a Monday but for purposes of this story, I changed it to Friday. Behold the power of fanfiction . . . :-)_


	16. Starting Over

The ability to kill a man from a hundred yards away is a macabre form of art. Media portrayals of a lone sniper lying in wait for that one perfect shot more often than not ignore the targets themselves - ruthless, cunning men who thrive on violence and whose survival depends on suspicion and paranoia and an uncanny ability to sense impending danger. One wrong move on the part of the shooter and weeks - sometimes months - of preparation go for aught when the target simply disappears. The successful sniper is one with excellent skills of observation, who studies his quarry until he can anticipate every move, and one who doesn't make mistakes.

Booth had been a very good sniper but in matters much more serious than mere life and death, he'd made a colossal mistake.

A weekend spent with Parker was just the distraction he needed to pull himself out of the chaos of his own head. Watching his son with Ashley, a pretty, dark-skinned girl with sparkling black eyes and a wide, cheerful smile, further put things in perspective. Their adolescent crush, pure and sweet in its innocence, reminded him that love was hope and strengthened his resolve to find his way back to both - with Brennan.

To that end, he deconstructed his behavior with as much attention to detail as he'd once given to finding the flaw in failed missions. His first mistake, he realized immediately, had been on the steps of the Hoover.

" _. . . I don't have your kind of open heart . . ."_

The moment unspooled in memory with perfect clarity. He'd let her words stand unchallenged instead of reminding her of what he knew even then to be true: guarded she might be but her heart was not cold and closed, and her own actions proved it. Her concern for Shawn and David Cook. The effort she'd put into finding Ivy Gillespie. The time and money she'd invested in a small town in West Virginia, on behalf of a baby boy she might never see again. A dog she'd buried and shed tears over. Not to mention, putting her own freedom at risk for the sake of the father who abandoned her.

He knew he could have - and should have - brought up dozens of examples that proved just how open to love Brennan really was but instead, Booth had accepted her words as if they were true. Distraught and desperate, he had only pushed harder and in doing so, made it all about him. By persisting, by pushing, by swearing that he could make it work, that it was enough that he alone could see a future together, he had validated her fear that she lacked the ability to give back.

And when she insisted that she couldn't change, the opportunity to tell her that he loved her exactly as she was disappeared when he simply gave up and immediately spoke of moving on. Rife with error from the very first moment when they came to a halt on the steps, the chance had been lost. Seen as a whole, it resembled nothing so much as an impetuous ambush that failed.

Put into perspective, he could see why his impulsive declaration of love only days after proposing to another woman had Brennan eying him with wary mistrust. It was action, not words, that inspired confidence and his behavior had been suspect to say the least. Regaining her trust meant first earning it back.

Newly resolved and with a firm goal now in mind, Booth set aside the misery and self-recriminations of the past week and set his thoughts firmly ahead. After returning Parker to Rebecca on Sunday afternoon, he took what he considered the first necessary step.

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The last person Jack Hodgins expected to see when he opened his front door was Booth. Nonplussed, he hesitated long enough for it to be noticeable.

"Uh . . . Agent Booth?"

Aware that he might not be the most welcome of guests, Booth crammed his hands in the pockets of the leather coat he wore. "I was hoping I could have a few minutes with Angela."

"Oh. Right. Well, yea. Sure. Come in. She's just . . . ah . . ."

Hodgins stepped back and gestured the other man inside. When he waved vaguely toward the back of the apartment, Booth took the opportunity to look around. He'd been there only once before, when Jenny Yang's body had been found in the shower, but immediately catalogued several changes, from the cosmetic use of new paint to structural differences like a wall he was sure had been moved.

Striving for what he hoped was a normal, friendly tone, he smiled. "I like what you've done with the place."

Hodgins reacted in kind. "Thanks. The renovations were a little more extensive than we at first thought. It turns out the smell of decomp is really hard to get rid of."

The rather disgusting subject might have been off-putting to anyone else, but for two men who worked with death on a daily basis, it simply broke the ice. They both laughed, much more at ease with each other. Hodgins kept walking, pointing out different areas as he went.

"We had to replace the flooring in the whole place, and a lot of the drywall, especially in the bedroom. Since we had it down to the studs anyway, we decided to go ahead and make it two rooms . . . you know, so we could have a studio for Angie and a workroom for me. Of course the master bath had to be totally gutted so we combined a couple of rooms on the other side of it and that's where our room is now. And then there's the nursery . . ." He stopped abruptly and looked at Booth with a rueful grin. "I'm babbling, aren't I?"

Booth's smile matched his. "A little."

Hodgins scratched the back of neck and then pointed over his shoulder. "Well, speaking of the nursery, that's where she is so . . ."

He led the way down the hall to a door that stood open. Angela's voice, oddly muffled, came from inside the room.

"Who was at the door? Please tell me it was Girl Scouts because I could really go for some cookies right now."

Booth answered before Hodgins could. "Sorry, no cookies. Next time, though, I promise."

Angela spun around, eyes wide and surprised over the cup of a white mask that covered her mouth and nose and explained the indistinct quality of her voice. The reason for the mask was obvious in the half-finished mural on the wall and the brush she held in one hand, along with the paint-splattered sweatshirt stretching across her belly. Despite the February weather, a window was propped open to let the cold breeze from outside clear the air of dangerous fumes.

Booth waited for a few seconds but she remained stubbornly silent.

"I wanted to apologize," he said finally.

One dark eyebrow arched high. "I'm not the one who should be getting an apology from you," she retorted. The mask moved over her mouth along with her lips.

Booth held her gaze. "I know that. I'm here because I know you love her, too."

It was that "too" that thawed her icy demeanor, if only enough to allow her to assuage her curiosity without guilt. Angela dropped the paintbrush on a palette covered with dollops of bright paint and wiped her hands with a paper towel.

"Fine," she said, tugging the face mask off as she stomped out of the room. "I was ready to take a break anyway."

In the kitchen, she spent longer than necessary washing her hands at the sink, then sat down at the table with a bottle of water she pulled from the fridge. She didn't offer Booth something to drink, nor did she ask him to sit down. It was Hodgins who, with a grimace of apology, waved to a chair and murmured something about a beer.

Arms folded over the mound of her stomach, Angela watched Booth shake his head and sit. Without waiting for him to begin, she went on the offensive.

"You hurt her," she began baldly. "And I don't mean by bringing Hannah here, either. That hurt, too, but as long as that was what you wanted, she was willing to put her own feelings aside and be happy for you."

Booth glanced at Hodgins and attempted a smile. "Maybe I need that beer after all."

The little joke had no impact on Angela. "You hurt her because you made her doubt you. You set yourself up as some kind of authority on love and relationships, and she believed you. She believed in you. She's uncomfortable expressing feelings and emotions, so she listened to you as someone who knew more about those things. When you told her there was someone for everyone and that love could last forever, it meant something to her! She has a head full of facts about anthropology and neurons and chemistry but you're one of the few people she trusts! You offered her a different explanation . . . you were so sure and confident and now . . ." Angela laughed but the sound was filled with bitterness. "Now you propose to Hannah and then you un-propose to Hannah and then you tell Brennan you're in love with her . . . How is she supposed to believe anything you say about love after all that?"

Booth put his elbows on the table and leaned in. "Everything I ever said to Bones about love, I said because I believed it. And I still do. I made a mistake." Angela snorted rudely. "Okay," he admitted, "I made a lot of mistakes. But I wasn't wrong about loving someone forever. I just . . . I just had the wrong woman."

"You hurt her," Angela said once again. If his words had softened her at all, it didn't show.

"I know." Booth held her gaze evenly. "And if I get the chance, I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to her."

The baby in her womb turned and stretched. Angela rubbed absently at the spot where one tiny fist jabbed up. "So . . . what? You want my help?"

Booth shook his head. "No. Where we go from here is up to me and Bones. But I would appreciate it if you didn't work against me."

The request was an acknowledgment of the close friendship the two women shared. Angela considered it for a moment in silence. When she caught Hodgins' eye, he shrugged, leaving the decision up to her.

"Alright," she said finally. "I'll keep my opinions to myself. Well," she prevaricated, "most of them." Her eyes slid sideways to find Booth watching her with a tiny smile curving his lips. "Okay, some of them."

"Thank you."

Knowing it was the best he could hope for, Booth held out his hand. Angela leaned away as if he were offering something dangerous.

"You fix this," she said bluntly. "Then maybe we can shake hands."

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_There are as many interpretations of that scene on the steps of the Hoover as there are grains of sand at the beach. The one here is what I'm choosing to use for this story. _

_Thanks for reading._


	17. Explanations

Booth drove straight to Brennan's apartment before the self-doubt left by the sharp edge of Angela's tongue could linger and take root. With the fire of conviction burning in his breast and a new-found determination to act instead of wallow, he marched to her door and knocked with a firmness that matched the pounding of his heartbeat.

A shadow moved behind the peephole and then disappeared. After a delay that lasted so long it seemed she might not open the door at all, he heard the lock disengage.

She was dressed for a Sunday at home, wearing jeans and thick socks with a grey cowl-neck sweater beneath a heavy cardigan. With her face free of makeup under the fringe of bangs, and her hair swinging loose around her face, she looked impossibly young, and as cautious as a newborn fawn. His breathing hitched painfully.

"Hey."

"Hello." A minute passed; just when he thought she might force him to talk to her from the threshold, Brennan stepped back. "Come in."

He did, immediately looking past her to the coffee table in front of the sofa where a cup of hot tea sat amidst notebooks and scattered pages. Even from several feet away, he could see photographs of human bones.

"I'm sorry. Am I interrupting . . ."

She glanced toward the table, too, but shook her head. "No. I'm consulting with the University of Leicester, in the UK. The archaeologist there believes they may have discovered the remains of Richard III."

He hadn't come to discuss an English king who'd been dead for 500 years but since she was at least talking to him somewhat normally, Booth stayed with it. His knowledge of British history was limited but Richard III was a name he recognized. "The hunchback, right?"

Brennan seemed just as happy to stick with the harmless topic. "He suffered from scoliosis," she corrected, "rather severely, if these remains prove to be his. But yes, his right shoulder would have been significantly higher than his left, which would have accounted for that description."

"So, do you think it's him?"

"Not having examined the bones personally, I can't answer with any degree of certainty. However, given the evidence I've reviewed so far, I would say that's a fair conclusion. There will be a DNA test, of course, to compare with living descendants. Would you like something to drink?"

The sudden offer took him by surprise. He scrambled for a moment. "Uh . . . yea, sure. Do you have anything besides that crappy Mexican beer?"

The familiar taunt wrung a smile from her lips that she quickly hid when she headed toward the kitchen. "Yes. Russ and his family were here a few weeks ago. I have a few bottles of his favorite brand left."

Booth followed her, stopping to lean one hip against the edge of a counter as she opened the fridge. "That sound's nice. How's he doing?"

"Very well. He's still working at the repair shop. He and Amy seem happy."

"And his little girl? The one who's sick - is she okay?" That he had to ask the question made him realize how successful he'd been at keeping her at arm's length over the past several months. Wrapped up in himself, focused on making a relationship with Hannah work, the close friendship they'd always shared had suffered.

Occupied with finding and then using the bottle opener, Brennan missed the shadow of regret that passed over his face.

"Haley is stable. She's recently been enrolled as a participant in a new treatment program. Amy is optimistic that it will improve her prognosis."

"Good. That's good to hear." Booth straightened when she offered the beer. Their fingertips brushed around the cold bottle. The tension between them inched higher. He covered up the racing of his pulse with a grin. "Parker says hi, by the way."

"Oh?" They remained in the kitchen, facing each other, mere feet apart.

"I had him this weekend. He had a date for Valentine's Day." The dry emphasis on the word "he" earned him a genuine smile. "Her name's Ashley. Sweet girl."

"He's ten years old." Brennan's affection for the little boy was obvious in the way her face softened.

"Yea, well, I'm pretty sure I caught them holding hands." After a moment's hesitation, he added, "He misses you."

As soft as it was, Booth heard the catch in her breath. She kept her composure, however, and clasped her hands together at her waist.

"It's been far too long since I've seen him. Does he know about . . ."

"About Hannah?" He finished the question when her voice faded into silence. "Yea. I told him we broke up."

He saw her fingers twist and tighten and the small gesture gave him hope.

"I'm sure that was difficult for him. I know they were growing close."

Having already experienced the end of several of his mother's romantic relationships, Parker had been remarkably sanguine about Hannah's departure. Leaving out most of their conversation, Booth continued with what he thought was most important to the moment at hand.

"Actually, the only thing he asked was if that meant you would be hanging out with us again. Like I said, he misses you." _So do I. _He left those words unsaid but they lingered in the air. When Brennan's gaze skittered away from his, Booth straightened his shoulders and plowed ahead. "Can we sit down?"

After an almost imperceptible hesitation, she nodded. "Of course."

She stepped around him on the way back into the living room. When she chose one end of the sofa, he took the other, setting the beer he'd yet to drink from on a coaster on the coffee table. In the act of shrugging out of his heavy coat, he paused.

"Do you mind . . ."

"No. Please, make yourself comfortable."

He took her at her word and for a few minutes, the only sound in the room was that of the leather sofa creaking as he shifted and resettled after draping it over the back of the couch. When he was finally still, only the faint rhythmic ticking of a clock on the mantle broke the silence.

More for something to do with his hands than anything else, Booth leaned forward and picked up the beer. He stared at the bottle as he twirled it between his hands. Conscious of Brennan's eyes on him, and of the need to be open and honest, he struggled to find the right words. "Things are . . . messed up between us right now," he began haltingly. In the quiet that surrounded them, the husky rasp of his voice sounded like old sandpaper. "That's my fault. Last year, on the steps . . . I pushed you. You weren't ready and I pushed you . . ."

"Why are we discussing that night?" Brennan interrupted. She studied him carefully. "It's been more than a year. It's not relevant."

The untouched beer was discarded with a thump. Hunched forward with his forearms resting on his knees, Booth held her gaze.

"Yes, it is. After my surgery . . . well, the dream I had. It was so real . . . and I was so happy. That's what I couldn't forget. When I woke up, that's what I remembered. That you and I were together and I was happy. That's when I knew I loved you."

"It wasn't a dream." Brennan deliberately skipped over his declaration of love. "It was the book I wrote while I waited for you to come out of the coma. I read it to you. Dr. Sweets said that in your unconscious state, your subconscious constructed a reality that matched the fiction you were hearing. It was just a story. It wasn't real."

Before she'd finished speaking, Booth was already shaking his head.

"The dream may not have been real but how I felt? That was. Having that dream just put it in perspective." He was adamant, and the face looking back at her was calm and sure. "That night on the steps, it all came out. I didn't think about how different it was for you. That you hadn't been living in my head all year, that you hadn't had all that time to come to terms with those same feelings. I just . . ." He shrugged. "After all that talk in Sweets' office about us and our relationship, it just came out. I felt like I had one chance and I took it. I took a chance and I pushed you. Well," he shrugged again, this time with a self-deprecating smile. "I tried to push you. I should have known better."

The memory of that night held the same pain for both of them. Their eyes met and held in a moment of raw truth.

"I don't know what I expected," Booth continued, his shoulders rising and falling as he exhaled. "I guess I thought you'd just fall into my arms and that would be that. You know, happily ever after. But that's not who you are. You don't fall. You step, deliberately and only after much forethought." His smile was gentle and loving. And then it faded. "But I was so sure I was right, so sure that we were right . . . I just wasn't ready to hear no."

He slumped into the couch, let his head fall back and stared up at the ceiling. His rugged, craggy profile looked as if it had been carved from living stone.

"Then there's Hannah. Well, I was alone. And lonely, and it felt like I always would be. Rebecca and then you . . . I kept thinking, I don't know, maybe there was something wrong with me, something that explained why no one wanted what I was offering." He sat up again and when he looked at Brennan once more, there was only bleak honesty between them. "And there was Hannah, and she did want me, and it was easy to tell myself that I was falling in love again. It felt good to know that I could fall in love again."

He sighed deeply.

"So, I proposed and when she said no, I pushed her just like I tried to push you. The difference is, she let me. She gave in, and she said yes even though it wasn't what she really wanted. And it was wrong, right from the start."

Booth shifted, turning in place until his body faced her.

"You told me you didn't want to have regrets, remember? Well, I don't either. If we'd gotten married, Hannah and me, we both would have regretted it. Hannah, because she didn't really want to get married and me because . . . because I have never stopped loving you."

The shimmer of tears that filled Brennan's eyes brought a lump to his throat. He swallowed hard.

"I figured that out too late so I hurt both of you, and I am sorry for that. But I want you to know where I stand now. You're the only woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. Whatever that looks like."

Fat drops of liquid crystal threatened spill over, but she determinedly blinked them away. "What I said that night is still true. I don't know if I can be who you need me to be."

That was not a mistake he would make again. Booth smiled.

"The only person you have to be is yourself. That's the woman I fell in love with. I'm not going to push you again," he added. "I've learned that much. You take your time figuring out whatever you need to figure out. When you're ready, I'll be waiting."

"What happens if I'm never ready?" she asked quietly. "What if you're wrong about me . . . about us?"

Booth's smile only widened. "I'm a man of faith, Bones. And I believe in you and me. I believe we can figure this out."

He offered his hand, palm up, and waited.

A minute passed, and then another. He watched the throb of her pulse beating at the hollow of her throat and wondered if she could hear his heart, slamming hard against his chest while the rest of his life hung in the balance.

When she finally placed her hand in his, he closed his eyes and sent a prayer of thanks heavenward. When he opened them again, she was watching him with the ghost of a smile curving her lips.

"Faith?"

"Faith."

He held onto her hand for a moment longer, stroking her knuckles with his thumb, grateful for the promise implied in the small touch. Finally he released her, slapped his palms against his knees and stood up.

"Well, I should let you get back to your dead king . . . Your potential dead king," he amended, taking a guess at what she intended to say when her mouth opened. He grabbed his coat, draped it over the bend of one arm and headed for the door. Halfway there, he turned back abruptly. Determined to keep his word and not pressure her to move faster than she was willing to go, he nonetheless wanted to regain a place at her side. "Would you like to have dinner with me and Parker some night this week?"

Brennan accepted the offer for what it was. "Yes, I would. Thank you."

At the door, he hesitated again. "So, I guess I'll see you later. Maybe we'll get lucky and pick up a murder tomorrow."

She scolded him with a smile. "That's a horrible thing to wish for."

"Yea, you're right. Still . . ." Feeling as if the weight of Atlas had been taken from his shoulders, he grinned back.

The happiness lighting his face dispelled the gloom and erased the last traces of haunted misery he'd worn for the past week. The difference was startling, and devastatingly attractive. As the first rays of hope blossomed for them, Brennan responded with a smile as beautiful and bright as his.

She was impossible to resist. Booth cupped one hand around the back of her head and held her close while he pressed his lips against her forehead. As he drew away, his hand slid down her arm until he found her fingers. When he gave them a squeeze, she returned the pressure.

Of such small gestures, the future is made.

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_The bones later positively identified as being those of Richard III weren't actually found until 2012 but using my magic fanfiction keyboard, I'm uncovering them a year early. :-)_

_Thanks for reading!_


	18. Baby Steps

Brennan expected to find Angela sitting in her office the next morning, waiting to discuss any developments that might have happened over the weekend. Much to her surprise, not only was her friend not waiting, she remained absent. It was almost noon before their paths finally crossed. Carrying a cup of green tea and a bowl of the vegetable soup she'd made for dinner the previous day, she climbed the steps to the small sitting area overlooking the platform, to see Angela already there, morosely picking at a small buffet of take-out containers from Sid's.

"May I join you?" An indifferent shrug and an unintelligible mumble was the only response she got. Bewildered, Brennan took the opposite seat and set her own lunch down. "Is something wrong?"

Angela stabbed chopsticks into one of the containers and slumped against the back of her seat with a heavy sigh. "No. Yes. My dad is in town."

That bit of news did nothing to clear up Brennan's confusion. "I'm puzzled by your demeanor. You're usually quite happy when your father visits."

Angela only grimaced. "Usually. But this time he's here because he wants to name the baby. He says it came to him in a dream." She waved her hands in the air beside her head.

"Oh." Brennan scooped up a bite of soup and, after considering the topic, reverted to what she knew best - anthropology. "The naming of a child carries great weight. In some cultures, it's not unusual for an entire village to be consulted."

"Yea, well, Hodgins and I aren't interested in consulting a village," Angela retorted. "We already have the names we want. Besides, I know what my dad's idea of naming a kid looks like, and that is not going to happen to my child."

"Because of the name he gave you." When Angela merely snorted, she probed curiously. "You've never revealed your original name to me."

"And I'm still not going to." Angela shut down Brennan's curiosity immediately, then changed topics without warning. "Have you talked to Booth?"

The abrupt switch caused Brennan to push aside the soup and reach for the steaming mug of tea. She held it in both hands and sipped delicately. "Yes. He came to see me yesterday."

Angela's sharp eyes saw right through her placid exterior. "Figured he would. He stopped by our place, too."

That got Brennan's attention. "Why?"

Smug, Angela smiled. "He wanted to make sure I wouldn't talk you out of giving him another chance by reminding you on a daily basis of what a jerk he's been."

Brennan almost laughed. "He greatly over-estimates your influence on me and my decision-making process."

"Well, that hurts!" Angela pretended to be insulted but laughter gave her away. After a moment, the shared humour faded. "So what did he have to say?"

A minute passed before Brennan responded. Despite having disavowed the importance of Angela's influence, she was anxious to hear what the other woman thought. She stared at her friend almost pleadingly. "He said . . . he said he would wait for me. That when I was ready, he would be there."

"Psssst! Pssssssst!"

The sneaky, attention-getting hiss wasn't for them. On the floor below, Hodgins stood just beside the platform waving to Vincent Nigel-Murray, who was working at a computer monitor.

"Dr. Hodgins? What - -"

Unaware of the observers just above them, Hodgins gestured him to silence and cast a furtive glance around. "Shhhh! Come here. I want to show you something!"

Vincent hurried down the steps and the two men disappeared into Hodgins' office. Her expression inscrutable, Angela stared through the glass walls and watched the glimmer of movement visible among the tanks and equipment.

"Jack waited for me," she said finally, her voice soft, still looking into the office. "After we broke off our engagement. He still loved me and he knew somehow that all I needed was time. He waited through Roxie, and through Wendell. Even when I thought I was pregnant with another man's child, he was still there for me. And when I was finally ready, when I realized that he was what I wanted all along, all I had to do was turn around. Because he was still there, waiting." She scooted forward and reached across the table to hold Brennan's hand. "Love is passion and fire and heat, but it's also patience and understanding. It sounds like Booth finally realized that. He's doing the right thing."

"Dr. Hodgins! What are you doing? What is that? What is going on in here?"

Cam's shocked tone was impossible to ignore. As Brennan and Angela watched, she marched into Hodgins' office. Seconds later, a scream and the crash of broken glass echoed through the Jeffersonian.

With their intimate _tete-a-tete_ over, the friends exchanged a long-suffering grimace and stood up.

"Perhaps we should go downstairs."

"Yea, I think we definitely should."

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At the FBI, speculation and rumours were rampant. Few secrets could be kept in a building full of men and women trained to ferret out the truth, so despite Booth's silence on the matter, whispers of the broken engagement - and dozens of guesses about the possible cause - were everywhere. Only Sweets was brave enough to approach the man himself directly, and was brusquely rebuffed.

Intent on making amends and mending his relationship with Brennan, Booth walked a fine line between giving her the space and time she needed and maintaining contact. With no pending case to throw them together, he invited her to breakfast once and for lunch twice, and on Thursday, gave Parker the task of asking her over for dinner. When she knocked on the door of his apartment that evening, it was the younger Booth who yelled, "BONES!" and threw his arms around her waist in a crushing hug.

Their affection for each other was obvious, and Booth was content for the moment simply to observe. Parker monopolized the conversation with a dozen jokes he'd memorized just for the occasion. The jokes weren't funny but he found Brennan's serious, straight-faced attempt to explain them hysterical, and his childish glee infected the adults until they, too, were laughing.

At the end of the night, father and son walked her downstairs and although Booth might have wished for the same kiss on the cheek she gave to Parker, the warmth in the eyes Brennan turned up to him when she said goodbye felt like a step in the right direction.

He woke on Friday with thoughts of Sunday brunch, only to have his tentative plans disrupted by orders to report to the Chicago field office, to provide support for a RICO bust involving more than a dozen suspects. By the time he returned late Sunday evening, any chance of finding a few private hours with Brennan over the weekend was gone.

Monday, at least, was a federal holiday. He slept in, then pulled on running shoes and sweats and drove to the Capital mall grounds, intent on a few quick laps followed by an hour in the Bureau's gym. Once there, he set an easy, steady pace, gritting his teeth through the occasional stabs of pain in his battered feet and concentrating instead on plotting his next steps with Brennan.

As if his thoughts had conjured her out of thin air, he saw a familiar ponytail bouncing at top speed through a group of slower runners several yards ahead. Grinning, the pain in his feet forgotten, he hurried to catch up.

"Bones, hey! Bones!" Thin white wires trailing from the iPod on her arm to the buds tucked into her ears was explanation enough when she didn't turn around. He moved in behind her, took a few seconds to admire long, shapely legs and the swing of the gray sweater tied around her hips, then gave her a playful poke.

Startled, she whipped around. The brief moment of alarm faded almost instantly into a happy smile. Her steps slowed as she tugged the headphones free.

"Booth! What are you doing here?"

He fell into place beside her and matched his steps to hers. "Got the day off, like you. Want some company?"

"Do you think you can keep up with me?"

The spirit of competition gleamed in her eyes. With windswept hair and flushed pink with exercise and the chill in the air, she was youthful and pretty and he was in love. He didn't hide it. It showed in his grin, and deepened the rosy blush in her cheeks.

"That's my line. Race you to the coffee cart." Without warning, he took off.

"What? Wait! Booth!" Struggling to put her earbuds back in, Brennan fell behind. By the time she was back to her normal pace, he was several feet ahead, running backward and smirking at her in triumph. She lengthened her stride to help make up the difference. "Oh, no you don't . . ."

He beat her to the goal by half a step but before he could boast, she crashed into him.

"I won!"

Booth looked at her in disbelief as she grabbed his shoulder to steady herself. "What do you mean, you won? I got here first."

Brennan shook her head, one hand on her stomach as she gulped air. "No, you took off before me by approximately two seconds, which means that you were both mentally and physically prepared before you issued the challenge. That is cheating."

He feigned outrage while around them, other people waiting in line watched the handsome couple with varying degrees of amusement. "What? Oh no no no no no. You're not going to science your way to a win here, Bones. You lost. I won. Admit it."

Brennan's chin went up in a gesture of defiance he'd seen a million times before. She nodded to the cart a few feet away. "If the time you gained as the result of having an unfair advantage is subtracted, I clearly arrived first. The price of your defeat is a cup of coffee."

The familiar back-and-forth banter caused a bittersweet pang so strong, his hand spread out over his heart by reflex. She noticed; when her eyes rose up to meet his, he smiled back.

"It's nice, arguing with you." Before she could respond, he clapped his hands together and deliberately lightened the moment. "You know what, I am nothing if not a gracious winner so I will buy you that cup of coffee, as my victory present to you. How's that?" He placed their order then leaned against the counter on one elbow. "So what are you doing with the rest of your day off?"

"The Greek Historical Society at George Washington University is hosting a lecture on the Peloponnesian War. What are you doing?"

Since his whole plan for the day was to find a way to spend at least some of it with her, Booth jumped at the opportunity fate presented. Trying to look casual, he shrugged. "Well, I was going to do some laundry but that lecture thingy sounds more interesting. Mind if I tag along?"

He could tell the request took her by surprise. "You want to go with me? Are you sure? I don't think you would enjoy it. It's going to be very dry."

"It's war, right? It can't be that boring."

The arrival of their coffee provided a few minutes distraction. Attached to the waistband of the FBI-issued sweats he wore was a pocket-flap just large enough to hold an ID. When he lifted his t-shirt to retrieve the money he'd also stashed there, Brennan's eyes flickered over the small patch of bare skin revealed by the movement. Booth saw the tell-tale glance; aware of his good looks and confident in the body he worked hard to maintain, after the attendant handed over his change he raised his shirt even higher, taking his time putting the money away and then, for good measure, used the hem to wipe sweat off his face, lifting it up further. Brennan wasn't the only one whose attention was caught by the sight of his flat, well-muscled abdomen, but she was the only one he cared about. _All's fair in love and war_, he thought.

Brennan abruptly turned and snatched one of the coffees from the counter. With the cup in hand, she walked away from the cart, paying far more attention than necessary to cracking the small opening in the plastic lid.

"Alright then," she said briskly. "Yes, you may accompany me to the lecture."

Booth hid a smile behind a sip from his own cup as he followed her. The stiffness of her tone did nothing to disguise the color that had risen again in her cheeks. That he'd managed to fluster her with a bit of bare skin made the day seem suddenly brighter.

"Sounds good. I'll pick you up at . . ." His voice trailed off.

"The lecture begins at 1:30," she supplied. "It's being held in the Lisner Auditorium, on the Foggy Bottom campus."

He did a quick calculation in his head. "With the holiday, the traffic won't be as heavy. How about 12:45? Or maybe earlier, if you want to grab something to eat before it starts?"

Their steps slowed, then stopped, until they stood facing each other. All around them, government workers and families with children took advantage of the President's Day holiday from work and school, enjoying the sunshine and temperatures that felt almost balmy after the frigid weather of the week before. Conscious only of each other, Booth and Brennan were oblivious to the noise and activity that surrounded them.

"Perhaps . . ." Brennan hesitated for a moment, then visibly came to a decision. Her shoulders squared, her chin rose. "Perhaps we could share a meal after the lecture. That would avoid the necessity to rush through it."

The suggestion took Booth as much by surprise as his earlier offer to attend the lecture had taken Brennan. He recognized the invitation for what it was - a sign of her willingness to meet him halfway as they negotiated this new and unfamiliar terrain. A sign of her willingness to move past the turmoil that had engulfed them after his broken engagement. A sign of her willingness to accept him.

The unexpectedness of the gesture hit him with the force of a sledgehammer, freezing the breath in his chest. His heartbeat stuttered . . . and stopped . . . and restarted.

"Yea," he said at last, when he was finally capable of speech. His gruff voice sounded an octave deeper than usual. "Yea, lunch after the . . . the . . . the war thing, that sounds good. We can take as much time as we want."

Brennan maintained a facade of outward composure but her eyes sparkled, revealing her true feelings. "Then it's settled. We'll attend the lecture and afterward, have a meal. Together."

Booth didn't even try to hide his wide, happy smile. "Sounds like a . . ." _Date_, he thought._. _". . . plan," he said.

Their coffee had grown cold, a fact they both realized when they suddenly remembered the cups in their hands, sipped, and grimaced simultaneously. After the laughter faded, Brennan gestured toward the dome of the Jeffersonian, visible at the other end of the mall.

"My car is at the lab . . ."

Booth nodded behind him, in the direction of the Hoover. "Right. I parked at the office. I'm gonna hit the gym, too, so . . ."

"So, I'll see you at 12:45 then. Goodbye."

They parted reluctantly, walking backward and in opposite directions for several steps. After dropping the unwanted coffee in a nearby trashcan, Brennan gave a little wave and finally turned away.

"Bones!" When she whirled back, Booth foundered for something to say. "See you at 12:45," was all he came up with.

It earned him a smile, though, that stayed with him for the rest of the morning.

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He got to her apartment at 12:20, then sat in his car for another fifteen minutes so that 'early' wasn't 'ridiculously early.' When he went upstairs, Brennan answered the door so quickly she might have been standing there waiting for him to knock. Unlike his last visit, she stepped back immediately and invited him inside.

"Sorry, I know I'm early . . ."

"No, it's fine," she insisted, brushing aside his attempt to apologize. "I'm ready. I'll just get my bag."

"You look nice." His gaze slipped over her as she walked away, taking in the sleeveless black and white floral dress she'd paired with a wide gray belt that cinched her waist to nothing. "I wasn't sure what I was supposed to wear to this thing . . ."

He'd settled on a forest green collared shirt tucked into jeans belted low on his hips. Worn under a leather coat the color of melted chocolate, the combination complimented the rich brown of his hair and eyes. The look was rugged, male, and vaguely dangerous. Brennan studied his appearance with a warmth that told him she approved.

"You chose well."

They smiled at each other for a few seconds, until Brennan remembered why he was there. With a heavy messenger bag slung over one shoulder and a coat hanging on the bend of her other arm, she led the way out.

Booth's SUV smelled like coffee and peppermint, thanks to the insulated cups sitting in the console. Booth shrugged, nonchalant, as he settled behind the wheel.

"I stopped on the way here. The coffee place on the corner has that mint creamer you liked so much last year so I had them add it to yours. I thought we might get thirsty during the lecture."

Brennan was touched that he remembered her affinity for a flavor that only appeared once a year. "That was very thoughtful, thank you. I . . . have something for you, too." She picked her bag up from the floor between her feet and pulled out a small black notebook with an ink pen stuck into the spiral binding. "In case you want to take notes."

Booth glanced back and forth from the traffic flowing around them, to Brennan, to the notebook. "Notes? On the . . . the Peloponnesian War?" When she nodded, he had to bite his lip to keep from smiling. He held back laughter only with effort. "Well, yea. Sure. I might want to take notes. On the Peloponnesian War. You know, because Athens never recovered from the defeat. It was the end of the golden age of Greece."

Brennan was staring at him in shock. Smug, he crooked an eyebrow at her.

"What? I know how to use Google."

She smiled as proudly as if he were one of her students. "I am impressed."

"Of course you are." He vowed silently to fill at least one page in that little black book with notes.

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When they arrived at the lecture hall, Booth was reminded again of Brennan's preeminent stature in the academic community. She was greeted by name, with respect and handshakes and more than once, with a level of warmth that had him sliding closer and sending a warning glare toward the unlucky professor. He stuck with her, enduring introductions and the speculative glances that went with them, until a group of people gathering on the stage at the front of the big auditorium allowed him to finally pull her away to the closest pair of empty seats.

He was bored out of his mind within ten minutes. All too aware of Brennan sitting beside him and of the little notebook she'd brought just for him, he copied some of the charts and graphs put up on the screen that filled the wall behind the podium. The exercise at least kept him from falling asleep.

Barely thirty minutes into the lecture, his phone went off. The strident beeps had the otherwise silent crowd craning their necks to stare at him with disapproval. When Brennan's phone went off seconds later, they stood up without bothering to look at the display.

"I apologize for the intrusion," Brennan said, in a voice loud enough to carry to the lecturers on-stage. "That usually means human remains have been discovered . . ."

"Bones." With a hand on her elbow, Booth urged her toward the exit.

She mistook his interruption. "Of course. I shouldn't divulge any further information. If this proves to be a homicide," she said once again to the room at large, "none of you have been ruled out as suspects."

Expressions that had been curious became mildly alarmed. Keeping his amusement to himself, Booth just gave the room a sharp nod.

"Right, don't leave town." With that, he hurried Brennan out.

They went straight to the crime scene, an unused warehouse in Anacostia already crawling with FBI technicians. Despite the pretty dress she wore, Brennan accepted a pair of latex gloves and bent to examine the ravaged body of the victim.

Booth, meanwhile, grabbed a flashlight and took his own look around the shadowy surroundings. The setting, the money left loose and scattered, the lack of visible evidence that anyone but the victim had been there - all of it set warning bells clanging in his head.

"Well, you two sure look kinda fancy for a crime scene." Caroline Julian's acerbic tones announced her arrival as she carefully picked her way through the busy hive of activity.

With her fingers deep in the flesh of the victim's neck, Brennan didn't look up from the body. "We were at George Washington University, at a lecture on the Peloponnesian War."

One eyebrow raised high, Caroline immediately looked at Booth. "We?"

"Yes." It was Brennan who answered, her voice absent as she focused on the remains. "Booth is very interested in fifth century BC warfare."

"Oh, he is?" Caroline's glee was palpable. She had her own opinion on his broken engagement and this bit of news seemed to confirm it.

Booth ignored her self-satisfied air. "What are you doing here?"

With a grin that let him know she would revisit the subject eventually, Caroline let the matter of the lecture go for the moment. "Dead guy. $150,000 left lying around. That kind of news makes me all tingly." Using the end of a scarf tied around her neck, she bent to pick up one of the $100 bills yet to be collected. "Why didn't the killer take all this money?"

"He was only interested in the kill." When light from his flashlight shimmered off metal in a nearby post, Booth went in for a closer look. What he found sent chills running down his spine. "I got a bullet. Copper. Hand-made."

"The bullet severed the C-5."

Brennan's announcement confirmed Booth's suspicions. His jaw hardened. "This is Broadsky."

The grim certainty in his voice drew all eyes his way.

Caroline looked at him in surprise. "Your sniper friend? The one who killed the Gravedigger?"

"He's not my friend," Booth shot back. One quick glance at Brennan found her looking at him with an expression he couldn't interpret. The promise and potential of the afternoon they'd planned drained away, leaving a dull numbness behind. Once again, it seemed, he would have to answer for his past actions. "He's not my friend, okay? We just served together. That's all."

Still crouched by the body, Brennan continued to watch Booth. "How can you be certain it's Broadsky? We have a bullet and a probable cause of death, but that's all we know so far."

"Severing the spinal cord from the brainstem is a sniper shot," Booth explained grimly. "The gold standard. We call it disconnecting the computer."

Caroline's lips twisted with distaste. "You can never have too many cute phrases for taking a life."

Booth moved toward the back of the warehouse, toward a dark corner blocked by pipes and columns. "There are no other bullets around here. There was one shot, and the trajectory says it came from over here, through all of this obstruction. One shot, and it had to guarantee a kill. Only five men in the world could make that shot. Broadsky did this."

"You could make that shot."

Brennan's quiet words filled him with helpless fury. "I'm not Jacob Broadsky!"

The tension between them was so thick, the FBI techs who had appeared with a body bag, stopped halfway. Even Caroline glanced away. Instead, she looked at the money in her hand. "Broadsky goes after bad guys, right? Give me that flashlight."

Booth handed his over and together they peered at the bill with the light shining up from beneath. The truth was inescapable.

"Counterfeit."

"Counterfeit. Okay," said Booth, "he's got to have someone on the inside. Someone who could tip him off about this guy. If I can find whoever is helping him, I can find Broadsky."

"Well, that sounds easy enough," Caroline said dryly.

"Easy or not," Booth bit out, "Broadsky is mine. I don't care if he's taking out bad guys. He doesn't get to make that call. This ends now."

Brennan straightened from her place beside the victim, removing the stained gloves with a snap and issuing a stream of instructions as the body was bagged for transport. As it was carried out of the warehouse, she joined Booth and Caroline.

"I can help," she offered. "I'm very good at research."

"Are you sure?" Booth searched her eyes but any thoughts she had related to his similarity with Broadsky were well-hidden. Somehow, that didn't make him feel better.

"I can't do anything until the bones have been cleaned so I have time. We didn't get the late lunch we planned," she pointed out, adding a tiny, hesitant smile. "Perhaps we could have something delivered while we work."

The reminder offered a glimmer of hope that somewhat dispelled the dull sense of defeat Booth had felt with every comparison to Jacob Broadsky. He opened his mouth to accept.

They'd forgotten about Caroline. She stood right beside them, eavesdropping shamelessly.

"Well now, doesn't that sound nice! A lecture on ancient warfare and dinner while you track down a murderer! Romance is in the air!"

Their awkward, embarrassed reaction was everything she hoped for.

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_Killer in the Crosshairs_ is an excellent hour of television. If you haven't seen it recently, you should go watch. Booth and Brennan are adorable.

Thanks for reading!


	19. Comparisons

They settled in his office and worked late into the afternoon, long after the pale winter sunlight faded away, surrounded by mostly empty take-out containers from a nearby Italian restaurant. With nothing else to go on, they acted on Booth's hunch that the person helping Broadsky was connected to his military service and, because the latest victim appeared to be involved with counterfeiting, started with a search of Secret Service personnel. Having been vetted by the FBI, there were thick files on each employee. Booth gave the local personnel to Brennan and worked through his computer on the rest. While she was still slogging through the voluminous paper, he moved on to the US Marshal service, which had been guarding Heather Taffet, the Gravedigger, when she was killed.

Thirty minutes into his new search, one particular marshal's history jumped out.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Bones, I think I've got something."

Brennan cast a particularly thick file aside and hurried to peer over his shoulder.

"Paula Ashwaldt?"

"Paula Ashwaldt." Booth's face was grim. Although he'd suspected as much, finding what was likely proof that he'd been right turned his stomach sour. "She served in the 4th Brigade Combat Team in Afghanistan."

Brennan glanced quickly from the screen to his taut profile. "Nothing in Broadsky's service record mentions the 4th Brigade Combat Team."

Booth's lips twisted. "It's amazing what the official record doesn't show, especially when it comes to snipers. See this action?" One fingertip stabbed the screen. "Her unit came under attack. It got her a Purple Heart."

"But there's no mention of a sniper."

"Broadsky was there," Booth said. "He told me. He saved twelve soldiers' lives that day, including Paula."

Brennan stepped back, arms folded over her chest, and regarded him dispassionately. "You admire him."

Despite the evenness of her tone, the comment stung. Still smarting from the comparisons she'd drawn between him and Broadsky at the crime scene earlier that day, Booth was immediately defensive. "For what he did there, yes. Not for what he's doing now."

"Even if you're correct and this is their connection, we need proof that she's helping him now. Snipers operate in secret. That's what you said about your work, isn't it?"

She was still watching him, studying him as if he were a puzzle to be solved. It put his back up and made his words sharper than he perhaps intended.

"My work? Do you have to say it like that? Like it was just a job to me? I'm not him, Bones!"

The anger took her by surprise. "I wasn't suggesting - -"

And just like that, Booth was done. Tired and defeated, with the morning's anticipation now shadowed by ghosts and the renewal of his own tortured ambivalence over his past, he wanted nothing more to do with the subject. He shut the computer off with one quick jab and pushed back from his desk.

"You know what, never mind. This is a start. I'll go see this Paula Ashwaldt tomorrow morning and find out for myself."

Brennan watched him with consternation furrowing her brow. "Booth . . ."

He didn't let her finish. If she wanted him to explain, he wasn't interested. And if she was going to apologize . . . well, at the moment, he wasn't interested in that, either.

"I should take you home. It's been a long day."

He deliberately turned away and busied himself shifting papers and files at random.

"Alright."

The confusion in her voice somehow made him feel worse.

The drive was conducted in silence, the miles that passed beneath the wheels thick with tension. Booth, stewing in righteous indignation. Brennan, sure that she was the cause but uncertain as to why. Still, when they arrived at her building, Booth parked and walked with her upstairs. As she unlocked the door, he tried to salvage something from the afternoon.

"I'm sorry we missed the rest of the lecture."

Brennan turned from the open door but didn't invite him in. "I seem to have upset you."

Booth almost brushed the remark aside with a smile and a casual reply meant to deflect attention from the disaster the day had become. He changed his mind and instead, tried to explain.

"Yea, you did. Listen, Bones . . . what I . . . what Broadsky and I . . . what we did over there, it was war. We were saving lives. What he's doing now, he's off the reservation. And it's going to stop." His dark eyes held hers, fierce and intense. "I'm going to stop it. I am not going to let him keep doing this."

"Your words are quite ironic."

Her smile confused him. "What do you mean?"

One shoulder rose. "Well, I imagine Broadsky tells himself the same thing when he stalks his prey."

Yet another comparison caused his anger to spike again, sharp and hot. "The difference is, I'm the good guy! He isn't."

"You were both paid to take lives." When Booth threw up his hands in frustration, Brennan hurried to continue. "I'm just trying to understand! Good and bad are subjective concepts. How can you be sure you were doing the right thing? How could you be certain, then or now?"

Booth faced her across a threshold that suddenly seemed much more than just a line separating her apartment from the hallway. It felt like a wall, one that left him firmly on the wrong side. Aggrieved, defensive, left to justify his actions, his voice rose, as if by speaking louder he could make her understand.

"Because I am, alright? Because I know! I knew then and I know now. It's not subjective to me," he insisted. "There is good and there is evil. It's that simple. You take a side in life! You pick what side you're going to stand for. I chose mine. And Broadsky chose his."

"But . . ." She fell silent when he raised a hand, palm out.

"It's been a long day." The fire of conviction left as quickly as it had burst forth. Shoulders drooping, Booth's face and voice were flat and emotionless. "I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?"

It was clearly not okay and one look at Brennan would have told him so. Instead, he'd already turned away when she spoke.

"Okay. Yes, we'll talk tomorrow. Goodnight."

He was already halfway to the elevators. "'Night."

He meant to go home but the demons of his past, awake again and hungry, found company in the faces of men long dead by his hand. Their ghosts taunted him . . . reminding him of his doubts . . . of that last second of hesitation he'd always pushed aside before pulling the trigger . . . of hours spent in confessionals, praying for forgiveness . . . of the fear, always in the back of his mind, that he, too, had crossed the line.

He'd spent a lifetime running from those ghosts and their whispers and found himself running again, until he rolled to a stop on the street outside a bar he hadn't been to in almost seven years. Inside those doors, he knew the chatter of the ghosts would be drowned out by laughter and clinking glasses, by loud, scratchy music from an ancient jukebox . . . by the clatter of cue balls and pool sticks and money exchanging hands.

The SUV idled against the curb while the man inside waged a lonely battle for control of the life he'd made for himself. In a brief moment of reprieve, Booth rested his head on the fingers clinging tight to the steering wheel. He wasn't surprised to feel them shaking. When he finally leaned back, he stared at his fingertips as if surprised not to find them covered in blue chalk.

It was a small victory but it was enough to give him the strength to put the car in gear and go home.

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The next morning, Booth was in Paula Ashwaldt's office when she arrived. He hit her with what he knew, and played off what he believed to be true as if he could prove it. The strategy worked; barely three hours later, after giving her the professional courtesy of allowing her to make arrangements to turn herself in and acting on the information she provided, he was at the head of a team of agents that swarmed over a small cabin in Prince George's County.

Meanwhile, Brennan's examination of the victim tentatively identified as Walter Crane had aroused her suspicions. By mid-morning, Angela confirmed them.

"You were right," she said, striding into Brennan's office and offering an open file. "The guy out there is Walter Coolidge, not Walter Crane. He was in the Witness Protection program, which probably explains the new last name."

"Yes, it would." Brennan nodded as she reviewed the information Angela found. "Why was he in the program?"

"He turned state's witness on a bigger bad guy. Maybe that guy is the one who sent Broadsky after him."

"It's possible. Booth is going to interview a US Marshal who saw combat with Broadsky. She might be the link that connects him to these cases." Brennan laid the file down on her desk and folded her hands over it. "He's upset with me."

"Booth? Why?" Angela frowned, then before Brennan could reply, waved away her question. "You know what, never mind why. He's not allowed to be upset with you. After what he did, you have about a hundred Get Out of Jail Free cards."

Brennan smiled, amused and grateful for the automatic defense. "You're very loyal."

"Damn right." Angela settled herself into the chair in front of Brennan's desk with a haughty sniff, rubbing a hand over her belly when the child in her womb protested her new position. "So, what did you do?"

Brennan shrugged helplessly. "I merely remarked on the many similarities he shares with Jacob Broadsky. They were both snipers. They both took human life and both are convinced they were right to do so. What?"

Angela had groaned - loudly. Now, she looked at Brennan with sympathy. "Honey, men are sensitive. They hide it behind all that body hair and tough guy stuff but they're really just big babies. And someone like Booth, well, he's Lancelot in shoulder holsters and you just questioned his honor."

Brennan was quick to disagree. "But I wasn't questioning his honor. I simply wanted to understand how two men could go through such a similar experience and come out on different sides of the law. On different sides of the line between right and wrong. Jacob Broadsky is a killer. Booth isn't."

Angela studied Brennan closely. "Are you sure about that?"

"Of course I'm sure!" Brennan drew back, insulted. "Booth is a good man. His character and his moral code would never allow him to become the kind of vigilante Jacob Broadsky is. I'm frankly surprised that you would suggest otherwise."

Angela threw up her hands in self-defense. "Okay, I'm sorry. You've convinced me," she grinned, tongue firmly in cheek. "Like I said, Lancelot in shoulder holsters. Now, maybe you should tell him that."

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.

.

Booth was hunched at his desk, staring grimly at the phone, when Sweets walked into his office.

"So I hear you found the villain's lair."

There was no humour on Booth's face when he looked up. "Lair?"

The dark scowl erased Sweets' jaunty smile. "You know," he mumbled, disappointed that his joke had fallen on deaf ears. "Bad guy. Lair. It's appropriate."

Booth sighed, then slouched low in his chair with his arms raised and his hands linked behind his head, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "Yea, Broadsky wasn't there but we found proof he's been staying at the cabin Paula Ashwaldt told me about. He's also been doing some sort of target practice up there. We found a temporary shelter and what's left of a stag's carcass. I sent it all to Bones. We'll see what the squints come back with."

Puzzled by Booth's demeanor and the heavy miasma that filled the room, Sweets shook his head. "This is good news, right? I mean, you've made a significant amount of progress in less than 24 hours. Shouldn't you be more pleased?"

Still staring at the ceiling overhead, Booth stretched out one arm and pointed at the phone. "I just got word that Paula Ashwaldt killed herself."

"Wow." Jaw slack with shock, it took a few seconds for Sweets to respond. "That is . . . unexpected."

"Yea." The chair creaked as Booth sat forward again. With his elbows propped on his desk, he rested his chin on tented fingers. "I should have taken her in this morning. When she said she wanted to do the right thing, I thought she was going to go through her files, maybe give us some more names. Not . . ."

"This is not your fault, Agent Booth." Sweets watched him with professional concern. "Suicide is an extreme act, even for someone in her position. You couldn't have anticipated her actions."

"Yea." Booth stood up abruptly and crossed to the window, presenting his back to the room and staring unseeingly into the rapidly growing darkness outside. He stuffed his hands deep in his pockets. "It's not just that, it's . . ." His voice trailed away. After a few seconds, the broad shoulders slumped. "Close the door, will you?"

Once again, shock left Sweets temporarily speechless. He quickly recovered, however, and hurried to pull the door shut before taking a seat in one of the chairs facing Booth's desk.

Then he waited.

Finally, Booth half turned toward him. His glance barely grazed Sweets before he looked to the window again. One hand emerged from his pocket holding a poker chip that he turned over and over between his fingers. "Bones . . . she thinks Broadsky and I . . . she thinks we're just alike."

Sweets could count on one hand the number of times Booth had voluntarily come to him for help, and more often than not, his own overtures had been summarily rebuffed. Sensing an opportunity that might not come again, he was careful to remain cool and thoughtful.

"What do you mean?"

Booth's fingers clenched around the poker chip. "She keeps . . . comparing me with him. You know, we were both snipers so according to her, that means we're just alike."

"Mm-hmm."

The noncommittal response earned him Booth's full attention. He spun around, scowling.

"This is the part where you say that we aren't the same!"

Sweets regarded him evenly. "Do you think I view you and Broadsky as the same?"

Booth stomped back to his desk. He loomed over it, jabbing the surface with one finger as he stared hard at Sweets. "Look, I never wanted to pull the trigger, okay? It was war. It was necessary. It was my responsibility."

The torment he still felt was there, visible in his eyes. Sweets lowered his voice to a soothing murmur.

"I understand."

He wasn't sure Booth heard him. The agent paced restlessly back and forth between his desk and the window.

"It was a terrible act for the greater good. But Bones . . . why does she question that?"

"Does she?" Aware that his next question might get him kicked out of the office, Sweets asked it anyway. "Or do you?"

After one scorching glare, Booth turned his back on him again.

"How many men have you killed, Agent Booth?"

Booth whirled on him with such fury, Sweets felt a drop of cold sweat roll down his back. He congratulated himself on simply not flinching.

"Really? That's where you want to go? What do you want, a list?"

"You could give me one, couldn't you? If I asked you right now, you could tell me every one of their names. Isn't that true?"

Booth stared back silently, the grinding of his teeth so loud, Sweets heard it from where he sat.

"That's what makes you different from Jacob Broadsky," he said quietly. "Being the cause of someone's death, no matter what the circumstances, leaves a man with a great burden. You've accepted that burden, and the pain and sadness and regret that comes with it. But you've also managed to build a life filled with family and friends, with people who love and respect you. That can't be easy."

Anger left Booth in a rush. He crossed the room and sank into his chair without a word. The poker chip rolled across the desk and landed against a pencil cup.

"Men like Broadsky," Sweets continued in the same smooth, even tone, "they see taking life as an act of power. They celebrate it. They rationalize it as meting out the justice that our legal system can't. Or won't. Claiming the moral high ground, however falsely, allows them to live with their actions."

"It . . . it kills me that Bones thinks that taking someone's life means nothing to me."

His voice shook. Sympathy for the pain he couldn't hide had Sweets putting aside his professional detachment. He leaned forward.

"Is it possible you've misjudged Dr. Brennan? As a scientist, her first instinct would be to examine a problem from all sides. Some of those questions might appear to be leading to one conclusion when in fact, they point to the opposite. Have you talked to her about this?"

Booth shook his head. "I'm trying to put my best foot forward here, you know? I mean, after . . . A month ago, I was asking another woman to marry me and now I'm asking Bones to give it a shot. What kind of man am I? What kind of man does she see?"

Sweets answered without hesitation. "I'm sure she sees you, Agent Booth. All of you. The man who torments himself over the lives he's taken is the same man who was so desperate to be loved, he proposed to the wrong woman. You are all of that and more, and hiding any of it behind a facade of your best foot forward is a disservice to both you and Dr. Brennan."

While Booth considered his words, Sweets sat back and let his hands slap against his knees.

"You and Dr. Brennan need to talk to each other. Really _talk_ to each other. You're both private - some might say, secretive - individuals. You - an abused child, the son of an alcoholic . . ." He ignored Booth's automatic protest and kept talking. " . . . Dr. Brennan - abandoned by her parents, left alone by her brother, her only other relative. Those experiences can create personalities that turn inward, that protect themselves from further harm by holding the rest of the world at arm's length. If you and Dr. Brennan are serious about making a relationship work, you'll both have to overcome that instinct and learn to be completely open with each other. Otherwise, your relationship will be as superficial as that best foot forward you mentioned. And it won't last."

He had Booth's full attention, could almost see the truth in his advice sinking in. And then he went a step too far.

"You know, I would be happy to facilitate a conversation between the two of you in my office. Confidentially, of course . . ."

And just like that, the private conversation was over. The door clanged shut with a sound loud enough to be heard. Booth was on his feet in an instant, hurrying around his desk to drag Sweets to his feet and usher him out.

"Yea, that's not going to happen. Thanks for listening, I appreciate it. Gotta get back to work. Bye."

He protested every step of the way, to no avail. "But . . ."

He was talking to a glass wall. When he opened his mouth to add one last thing, Booth flipped the privacy blinds closed, figuratively and bluntly shutting him out.

Sweets mentally kicked himself for the mistake, then headed to his office to add the conversation to his notes.

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* * *

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_Mea culpa for dropping a 'Booth is a good man' on you. I hope I don't have to use that phrase again in this story! _

_Sweets is absolutely right that B&amp;B need to learn to talk to each other instead of the usual go-betweens. Luckily, _Blackout in the Blizzard_ is waiting and if you don't love that episode, I'm not sure we can be friends. I have one more chapter of this little section to finish, and then we're going to have some fun in that elevator. :-)_

_Thanks for reading!_


	20. Clearing the Air

_(Sorry for the delay! I really want to post at least one chapter a week but I've had some health issues lately that don't lend themselves to feeling creative. Hopefully, things are back on track now!)_

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* * *

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Not long after shuffling Sweets unceremoniously out the door, Booth gave up any pretense of getting more work done that day. Hunched over his desk, he reached for the poker chip he'd tossed aside earlier and toyed with it absently.

"_You and Dr. Brennan need to talk to each other . . ."_

"Yea, tell me something I don't know," he grumbled out loud to the now absent psychologist. Scenes from the previous day spooled out in memory, this time with subtitles flashing around them as he mentally corrected them with just the right reaction and perfectly timed responses. He sighed. Hindsight might be 20/20 but it was also worth listening to. He reached for his phone and then paused to check the time. Not quite 6:30 pm and given the amount of material from the cabin he'd sent to the Jeffersonian, he knew Brennan would still be working. He changed his mind about a phone call and sent a text instead.

_Want to have bfast w/me tomorrow?_

To his surprise, a response pinged back almost immediately.

_I would enjoy that but Dr. Saroyan is forcing me to accompany her to the quarterly meeting of the Jeffersonian's board tomorrow morning. It begins at 8:00 am._

_Forcing?_

_The word is appropriate. She threatened to have me put on the agenda as a presenter at the next two meetings if I somehow managed to avoid attending this one._

_Wow shes playing hardball_

_I'm familiar with that phrase. It is also appropriate. _

_How about dinner instead?_

_That would be nice, thank you.  
Booth?_

_?_

_I would like to continue the conversation we began yesterday._

_I think that wld be a good idea. In person, not txting back &amp; forth_

_No. This format doesn't lend itself to discussing matters of consequence. _

_Right.  
Anything for me on the stuff I sent over?_

_Nothing conclusive but we're still evaluating. _

_Ok. I'm headed home in a few so call if anything pops. Otherwise I'll call u tomorrow?_

_Yes, that's fine. Goodbye._

_Bye._

Booth stared at his phone for a few minutes, re-reading the conversation, trying to see beyond every letter and punctuation mark to the meaning hidden beneath. "Matters of consequence?" He studied those words until they seemed burned into his retina before he finally gave up and, as planned, went home.

He stepped inside the lobby of his building just as the ancient, cage-like elevator squealed to a stop with his neighbor, a cantankerous old woman named Mrs. Ross, inside. Her daughter Ellen was with her, and judging by the supportive arm and the slow, shuffling steps, seemed to be doing more than just casually helping her mother out. Booth quickly spun away from the stairs he'd planned to take and reached out to grab the elevator's door.

"Let me get that."

"Thanks, Seeley." Ellen gave him a distracted smile, her usual bubbly cheerfulness nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Ross, too, behaved oddly. For once, the elderly woman didn't greet him with a caustic jibe. Bundled for the cold weather, she merely closed her eyes and moaned, leaning further into her daughter.

"Everything okay?"

Ellen adjusted the scarf that covered Mrs. Ross's short grey curls and tightened the ends around the papery throat. "Not really. I've been telling her for days that she has an infection under one of her crowns but she wouldn't listen, and now I think it's abscessed. We're headed to that emergency dental place on Woodmont."

No stranger to dental problems, Booth winced in sympathy and hurried over to hold the outside door open, too. "I'm sorry to hear that. Anything I can do? Want me to drive you there?"

"It's sweet of you to offer but my car's just over there. Did you hear that, Mom? Wasn't that nice of Seeley to offer to drive us?" A gust of cold wind had her placing a steadying arm around her mother's waist as they stepped into the cold night air. Ellen flashed one quick glance over her shoulder as they reached the sidewalk. "Oh, I almost forgot. Your friend is here. I let him into your apartment. Hope that was okay."

Booth frowned at the news. "I'm sorry, who's here?"

"Your army buddy? James, Jason, Jake . . ." Focused on getting Mrs. Ross to the car parked at the curb, Ellen missed Booth's suddenly murderous scowl. "I can't remember, sorry. He said you were expecting him, though. He was going to sit on the steps and wait for you but I thought that was silly so I just used the key Mom has and let him in."

Booth quickly pasted a wide, false smile on his face when she looked at him again. "Yea, sure, it's fine. I'm just surprised. I wasn't expecting him until tomorrow. Tall guy, right? Ugly."

Ellen laughed as she settled her mom into the front seat. "Well, he may not be as handsome as you," she joked, "but I wouldn't kick him out of bed for eating crackers. Don't tell my husband!" She threw the door shut and rounded the car to the driver's side, waving one hand overhead as she slipped inside. "Bye! Thanks again for your help!"

As soon as he was alone, Booth's entire demeanor changed. The door fell closed behind him as he headed for the steps, gun in hand. He was halfway up before he stopped to assess the situation.

He had no doubt Jacob Broadsky was in his apartment, and that he was armed. He'd also let himself be seen and, according to Ellen, introduced himself with a name that, if not his real one, was at least similar. It was those last two points that had Booth putting away his own weapon. If Broadsky wanted to kill him, he wouldn't introduce himself to the neighbors first. His old army buddy, it seemed, wanted to have a conversation.

Despite that belief, Booth was still on alert as he approached his apartment. He rattled the key in the lock more than usual and once inside, announced his presence by sighing loudly and making a production out of storing his gun away for the night - something he usually only did when Parker was there. When the door of the gun safe slid shut, a small lamp flicked on in the living room.

Supremely nonchalant, Jacob Broadsky sat on the sofa with a pistol in his hand and his finger on the trigger. Light from the lamp beside him cast his face in sinister shadows incongruously at odds with his casual attitude.

"Hello, Booth."

Careful to keep his hands in view, Booth let his anger - and his lack of surprise - show. "Welcome to my home, Jacob," he said sarcastically. "Can I get you anything?"

The gun poised on him didn't waver. "I just want to talk."

"About what?"

"Paula."

Booth kept his eyes locked on Broadsky's. "I heard."

A muscle twitched in Broadsky's cheek but the finger on the trigger was steady. "I know you went to her office this morning. What did you say to her?"

Booth's face remained expressionless. "You think her death is my fault?

Broadsky got to his feet. Several inches taller than Booth, the move was meant to be threatening and ratcheted up the tension in the room. "Don't tell me you don't think the same thing. I know how your mind works, Booth. You never could stand collateral damage."

"Paula Ashwaldt was collateral damage the minute you talked her into helping you. If anyone is responsible for her death, it's you." Recognizing Broadsky's tactics for what they were, Booth held his ground. "Now, you either shoot me or get the hell out of my house."

A tiny smile played around Broadsky's mouth as if he found Booth's bravado amusing. "We've always been on the same side."

"Yea, well, that's over," Booth snapped. "You aren't one of the good guys anymore, Jacob. If you want to start finding your way back, give me that gun and let me take you in. That's the right thing to do. You know it."

Broadsky's smile widened into a chilling show of teeth. "I tell you what, the day I wake up and there are no more bad people who need to die, you'll be the first person I call."

With the gun still in his hand, he began to edge his way toward the door. Booth's head turned as he followed the other man's progress.

"I'm coming after you," he promised grimly. "And the next time I have you in my sights, I'm not aiming for your knees."

Broadsky stopped with his free hand on the doorknob. "I'll consider myself warned. Now, you consider this."

"What?"

"I hold you responsible for Paula's death," he said. For all its softness, an undercurrent of menace ran through his voice. "She was innocent . . . like your son."

Fury boiled up, hot and fast. Only the weapon still pointed at him kept Booth from lunging at the other man. Jaws clamped shut, his lips barely moved when he spoke.

"Think very carefully about what you say next."

Broadsky knew he'd scored a hit. He opened the door and backed out, one step at a time. "I always do. If you don't want that sweet little boy of yours to grow up without a father, you'll stay out of my way." The door closed with a quiet _snick._

Booth stayed where he was for several minutes waiting for the haze of rage to subside. When he felt calm enough to speak somewhat normally, he jerked his phone free of the clip on his belt. With the jab of one finger, he called up his boss.

"Agent Booth, what -"

He didn't give Hacker time to finish. "Sir, I need to see you in your office tomorrow morning. First thing."

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.

At 10:30 the next day, he had everyone's immediate attention when he strode into the ultra-modern lobby of a downtown law firm with a uniformed police officer at is side. The receptionist, brittle, blonde and ruthlessly fashionable, looked at him in wide-eyed alarm when he marched up to the slab of granite that functioned as her desk. Her welcoming smile faded.

"I need to see Rebecca Stinson."

The young woman's eyes flickered between him and the gun visible on the officer's hip. "I . . . I . . . I'm sorry," she stammered. "Ms. Stinson is in a meeting . . ."

In no mood to explain their somewhat complicated relationship, Booth simply pulled out his badge and slapped it down in front of her. "FBI. Get her out of the meeting. Now."

The receptionist fled, leaving nothing but the sound of heels clicking on marble tile drifting in her wake.

When Rebecca finally appeared, irritation switched rapidly to panic when she saw the armed guard behind Booth. "Parker!"

Booth shook his head. "He's fine, but you and I need to talk. Alone."

Obviously still worried, she led him down a long hallway to the big corner office she'd earned three years earlier. Curious faces peering out of cubicles and conference rooms marked their progress, dropping into a flurry of whispers as they passed by. When they reached her office, Booth pointed the officer to an empty seat along the wall and followed Rebecca inside. His attention was immediately diverted by a leather armchair and the bright red electric guitar tied with a white bow propped against it.

"You caved, huh?"

"Well, it's all he's talked about for months." Rebecca folded her arms over the white silk of her blouse and glared at him. "I know you didn't bring a cop here so you could discuss Parker's birthday, Seeley. What's going on?"

He told her, using short, succinct sentences that were all the more horrifying in their brevity as he described Broadsky's crime spree and his surprise visit the night before. When he was done, fear and shock left Rebecca's blue eyes the only spot of color in an otherwise pale, stricken face. She staggered to her desk and collapsed into the chair behind it.

Booth pulled a photo from the inside pocket of his coat and laid it in front of her. "His name is Jacob Broadsky. Show this to everyone here. Show it to Brent, too. If you or anyone else sees him anywhere around, I want to know about it."

Rebecca nodded, drawing the picture closer with fingers that shook. Booth noticed. He took a step toward her. His voice dropped to a husky rasp as he attempted to allay her fears.

"Look, I'm just being cautious, okay? He's after me, not Parker. I just don't want to take any chances. I've already been to the school and put them on alert. There's a cop there, too. Someone will stay with both of you until this is over. Please don't fight me over this, Rebecca."

Her head jerked up. "Of course not! If you're worried enough to put someone on us for protection, I'm not going to argue with you! What about Jared? Your grandfather?"

"I've talked to them already," Booth assured her. "They're fine."

"And Temperance?"

The question took him by surprise but he quickly recovered. "She'll be fine. As far as Broadsky's concerned, we just work together."

Rebecca sighed. "Seeley, if this guy's been watching you for more than ten minutes he knows how you feel about her. If he tries to get to you by going after the people you care about, she'll be a target, too."

That thought had already occurred to him, and it weighed as heavily as his fear for Parker. His jaw tensed. "I'll take care of Bones. You just watch out for Parker. I'll call him tonight. Until I catch this guy, I don't think it's a good idea for him to come over."

He brought in the police officer and introduced the two of them. After a few last minute instructions, Rebecca escorted Booth out of the building and then shut herself up alone in her office. The photo of Jacob Broadsky leered threateningly from her desk. She turned it over, then withdrew a slim parchment envelope from a file carefully hidden away at the back of a drawer.

Brow furrowed in thought, she stared at the address for several long minutes, tracing the London postmark with her thumb.

.

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.

Back at the Hoover, Booth spent the next few hours refining his next moves. After lunch, he pulled his team together. As expected, they bristled at the news of Broadsky's visit and the implied threat to his young son. He doled out new assignments, including a forensic review of Paula Ashwaldts' computer to search for signs of other files that might have been accessed. When everyone scattered, he headed to the kitchen and a fresh cup of coffee.

Caroline Julian followed him, seething with indignation. "Don't you worry about that boy of yours, _cher_. We'll get this _feet pue tan._"

Booth cocked an amused eyebrow in her direction. "This what?"

"You're too young for the translation." She relaxed enough to give him a cheeky grin. "The important thing is, we're going to nail this bastard."

He leaned one hip against the counter and regarded her over the rim of his cup. "I thought you were okay with Broadsky? Taking down the bad guys, saving the taxpayers money, all that kind of stuff."

"Well, that was before," Caroline sniffed. "The man breaks into your house? Threatens your child? Oh, no. I want him locked up, and for good."

"Thanks. I feel the love - -"

He was interrupted by a stampede erupting from the elevator just yards away. Brennan led the way, followed by what looked like every employee of the Jeffersonian's forensic team. Headed for Booth's office, she caught a glimpse of him from the corner of her eye and pivoted abruptly toward the kitchen. Space disappeared as the entire group followed her into the room.

"Bones, what - -" He hardly had time to register the leap of surprised pleasure at her unexpected appearance before she cut him off.

"Broadsky is going to kill someone else today."

Hot coffee splashed over his fingers when Booth slammed his cup down on the counter. He didn't notice. "What?"

Practically vibrating with barely-suppressed irritation, her voice was as stiff as her demeanor. "I apologize for the urgency. I would have seen this earlier if I had been allowed to do _my work_ this morning instead of being forced to spend hours at a useless meeting - -"

Cam immediately jumped back into what was obviously an on-going disagreement. "That _useless meeting _just got us a ten percent increase in funding, money which, I might add, you won't have any problem using to do _your work - -_"

When Brennan spun around to face her, Booth stepped between the two women, forcing each of them to take a step back. "Alright, alright, alright. Argue about that later. I want to know what you've got on Broadsky. Hang on . . ." He herded them into the conference room he'd used earlier, then faced them with his hands on his hips. "Okay. Somebody talk to me."

Five voices rose at once. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Then he shouted.

"Enough!" When everyone fell into a chastened silence, he looked at Brennan. "Bones?"

"When we examined the venison from the cabin's freezer, we thought it was filled with buckshot . . ."

"Buckshot has been used to kill large game since the 1700s . . ." When Booth's sizzling glare turned his way, Vincent took a step back and pinched his lips closed. "Right. That information is not pertinent at the moment."

Brennan continued as if the interruption had never happened. "What we found embedded in the tissue were actually pieces of a projectile - -"

"A shell," Angela broke in. She shoved her way through the group and set the laptop she carried on the glossy surface of the conference room table. After a few taps on the keyboard, she turned it toward Booth. "And not only a shell, but a programmable shell. Look."

Silence fell again as on-screen, the simulated pieces of the shell flew back together, complete with an embedded computer chip.

Hodgins' eyes were on Booth. "Is that possible? We actually have those?"

"We have those," Booth confirmed grimly.

"Um . . . if I may?" Vincent's hesitant voice broke in. "This is actually pertinent," he said quickly, taking Booth's narrowed gaze as the warning it was. "Dr. Hodgins and I . . ."

Hodgins shook off his reaction to the weapon and picked up the story. "Right. While Angie was working on . . . that . . ." A hint of disgust laced the glance he threw at the laptop screen. ". . . we - Vincent and I - were going through the rest of the stuff you sent from the cabin, looking for anything else that might be important . . ."

"And we found this." Vincent placed a sheaf of paper covered in architectural renderings next to Angela's laptop with all the aplomb of a magician revealing his secrets. "They're schematics for a room - -"

". . . with a 12 foot high copper ceiling and a marble floor - -"

Angela was busy again at the keyboard of the laptop. "I did a search using those parameters and came back with - -"

"That's the women's bathroom in the federal courthouse." Unnoticed in the hubbub, Caroline had followed them into the conference room. Now, though, she had everyone's attention. "I've been trying cases in that building for 25 years. That's the bathroom on the first floor. The judges' chambers and the offices upstairs have bathrooms, too, but they're not so glitzy. Copper ceiling, marble floor. Federal courthouse."

Angela nodded. "Yea, that's what I found out. It's a bathroom in the federal courthouse. It wasn't clear if it was the men's or the women's."

When all eyes again turned to Caroline, she puffed up like an angry rooster. "Why are you all looking at me? I don't make a habit of visiting men's bathrooms."

Brennan grabbed Booth's attention again and pointed to a handwritten date on the corner of the page. "Look! That's today! Why would he write that down if it wasn't important?"

"He wouldn't," Booth agreed. "Is there a name somewhere?" When the answer came back no, he turned to Caroline. "Do you know who's on the docket today?"

"No, but I can find out."

"Do it," he ordered, "and meet me at the courthouse." A dark sense of frantic urgency filled the room as he glanced at his watch. "It's almost 4:00. Bones, you're with me. You." Already headed for the door, one long finger pointed at Angela. "Broadsky isn't going to walk into the courthouse and start shooting, which means he's got a blind somewhere, probably on a roof. I need to know where. Find out where his best line of fire is and call me. Let's go, people! Chop chop!"

Brennan struggled through the mass exodus trying to get through the single set of doors and hurried to catch up as he ignored the elevator in favor of the stairs.

"Don't you want to bring in other agents?"

The door to the parking garage slammed against the wall when Booth threw it open. "There isn't time. Besides, if a bunch of cops show up and surround the place, it will scare him off. My best bet is to figure out where he's set up and take him out there."

"Take him out . . ." Brennan stared at him with something akin to horror on her face.

Booth didn't notice. He slid behind the wheel of the SUV and had it started and in gear almost before she was inside and buckled in.

The courthouse was only a few blocks away but since Booth didn't dare use his sirens for fear of scaring Broadsky away, he was forced to rely on a series of aggressive - and sometimes downright illegal - driving maneuvers to negotiate the heavy traffic. Brennan remained quiet; focused on getting to their destination as quickly as possible, Booth missed the signs of her growing disquiet.

He double-parked a few yards from the courthouse and turned on his flashers, trusting those lights and his government-issued license plate to save the vehicle from towing. With only a muttered, "Come on," he headed for the doors.

Inside, he handed his badge and his gun to the guard and, after barreling through security, grabbed them back. The usual crowd of staff and visitors that normally filled the building was thinning at the end of the day, but the echoes of voices and shoes bouncing off the marble floor somehow felt louder. Directional signs attached high on the walls at corners and hallways pointed the way to various numbered courtrooms. He ignored them, looking instead for - -

"There!" He looked back at Brennan, who, after being delayed in security, was once again hurrying to catch up, and pointed upward. "The bathrooms are that way. I'll check out the men's room, you go in the women's, okay? I'll meet you out here."

Before she could do more than nod, he was gone.

The bathrooms were opposite each other along the same hall. When she came out, Booth was waiting impatiently.

"Yes, it fits the description. There's a window, also, approximately two and a half meters off the floor within view of several buildings nearby. I could go back and count them if you wanted . . ."

He didn't. Instead he fumed, pacing back and forth in frustration. "Where is Angela with that location?"

Caroline's arrival forestalled any need Brennan had to reply. She hurried over, a manila folder in hand, breathing heavily.

"I've got it. There are only two trials still being heard, a dirty cop and a tax cheat."

Booth grabbed the file from her and skimmed the contents. "Gotta be the cop. What about the lawyers?"

Caroline shook her head. "Bit players in big firms. If Broadsky wants to start taking out crooked lawyers, there are much bigger targets to go after in this town."

Booth agreed and thrust the file back into her hands. "Okay, I'm going to get my rifle. Come on, Bones. Caroline, you wait outside that courtroom and keep an eye out. If you see the cop heading for the bathroom, stall him."

"How am I supposed to stall him?"

Already walking away, he threw a hand in the air. "I don't know . . . make a pass at him!"

"Make a pass . . ." Jaw open, Caroline stared at the broad back rapidly disappearing down the hallway. "Seeley Booth, you and I need to have a talk about my job description!"

Bursting onto the bustling sidewalk outside, Booth gave no indication he heard her. He didn't respond to Brennan's repeated calls either, until she stopped him by grabbing his arm and forcing him to a halt.

"Booth!"

"What?"

The cell phone in her pocket rang, providing a momentary distraction. She glanced at the screen before answering. "Angela?" After listening briefly, she murmured a quick "thank you" and hung up. "She said the best angle into both restrooms is the rooftop of a building at 18th and Riggs."

Booth nodded with satisfaction. "Good. We know the who and the where, now we have to stop the when."

"Wait!" Before he could turn away again, Brennan grabbed his arm. "Is it your intention to kill Jacob Broadsky?"

Booth's expression was grim. "He has to be stopped."

"He has to face justice," Brennan said sharply. "What you're suggesting is not justice. It's vengeance. It's more than that - it's murder." Her chin jutted forward stubbornly. "I won't help you."

The waning February sunlight began to disappear as dusk settled around them. They stood in the middle of a sidewalk teeming with people streaming from nearby offices and government buildings, bundled into heavy coats, headed toward parking lots and metro stations at the end of another day's work. The mass of pedestrians parted around them, sometimes jostling them in the process. Neither noticed.

"And what happens if he wiggles free?" Furious at the way she'd framed his decision, Booth loomed over her. "What happens if he hires some hotshot lawyer who gets him off? He's killed three people that we know of! How many more are on his list?"

"That's the same justification he uses to rationalize his own crimes!" Just as angry, Brennan stood her ground. "If you use the same motivation to vindicate similar actions, how are you different from him?"

Once again, the comparison to his former compatriot stung. Booth's voice raised to a shout. "I'M NOT HIM!"

"I KNOW THAT!" Brennan was just as loud, and so angry she actually stomped one foot. "Jacob Broadsky's amorality means he can act without compunction, without fear of consequence. You can't!" The argument between the couple standing toe to toe in the middle of the sidewalk attracted attention that finally registered on the participants. As they both took calming breaths, Brennan muttered half to herself. "How can I explain this so you understand . . ."

Even with his pride wounded, Booth was conscious of a clock ticking out the last few minutes they had to stop Broadsky. Fidgeting with impatience, he bit out, "I don't know, use little words. I'll figure it out."

"Little words . . . Little words. Okay" Brennan took the instruction seriously. He could almost see her brilliant mind working feverishly behind her eyes as she framed a response. Her head tilted as she met his gaze straight on. "Broadsky is bad," she said slowly. "You are good." She slapped the palm of one hand hard against his shoulder and yelled at him again. "YOU ARE GOOD!"

Booth's self-defensive shields dropped, allowing him to finally see the truth behind her words. Her belief in him was unshakable but behind it, her concern was obvious, as was her palpable fear that he might be taking a step that would eventually destroy him. Put in context, the comparisons she'd made between him and Broadsky, the comparisons that he'd so hated and anguished over, fell into place as merely similar steps that had long since sharply diverged into two wildly different paths.

Relief raced through him on a tide so strong, he almost laughed. Instead, he hauled her into his arms and kissed her.

It was over before Brennan had a chance to react. She was still blinking, dazed, when he set her away from him.

"You're right. I'm not him." Those had been his words, not hers, but it didn't matter. "I won't shoot to kill but I have to stop him. There isn't time to get anyone else here."

"Umm . . ."

Her inability to speak went unnoticed; Booth was already halfway to the SUV, parked just yards away.

"I'm going to need your help. You can be my spotter."

The off-hand comment jerked Brennan out of her trance-like state. "Your . . . No, Booth, I can't. I'm not trained."

He stopped and turned back toward her. A street light that had been flickering overhead suddenly blazed to life, casting him in a golden glow that made his dark hair gleam and threw his profile into sharp relief. When he smiled, he was impossibly handsome.

"Don't worry. I'll use little words. You'll figure it out."

The unexpected joke took her by surprise. Laughing, she hurried to catch up.

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Night was fully upon them by the time they made it to the rooftop of the office tower opposite the one at 18th and Riggs. They crept through the obstacles created by electrical and HVAC structures and searched the building across from them, Booth peering through the scope of his rife, Brennan using the range-finder he'd given her. Finally, Brennan shouted in triumph.

"I see him. Twenty degrees to the right of the small green light."

"Got him."

Booth crouched behind a tall metal box labeled 'Warning: High Voltage' and propped his gun on top for stability.

"Readings."

Despite her inexperience with the equipment, Booth's belief in her ability to pick up his instructions quickly paid off. They worked together seamlessly, their teamwork almost effortless as they settled into the rhythm of the task at hand. Looking through the lens of the range-finder, Brennan methodically read off the small notes that appeared on screen.

Trusting her findings without reservation, Booth adjusted his aim and shifted closer to his weapon.

"Cover your ears. On three. One . . . Two . . . Three . . ."

The short, sharp crack of a rifle exploded into the night. Across the street, sparks shot up. Momentarily forgetting the range-finder, Brennan stood up and searched the rooftop with her own eyes. Booth cursed and jerked her down beside him.

"Bones!"

"Did you get him?"

He peered through the rifle's scope, smiling with grim satisfaction. "I got the gun. Broadsky took a hit from the explosion. He's injured." He pulled out his phone and called 911.

"This is Special Agent Seeley Booth. FBI badge number 22705. I need a ten-block perimeter set up around 18th and Riggs. Suspect in multiple homicides. Caucasian, six feet two, brown and brown. Suspect is armed and dangerous and injured. I repeat, suspect is armed, dangerous and injured." He listened for a moment. "Roger that."

Brennan watched him carefully. "Do you think they'll find him?"

Booth shook his head, put away his phone and began to dissemble his rifle. "No, he's long gone."

Her eyes stayed on him, marked with concern. "He has to know that it was you who made that shot. He'll come after you now."

The thought had already occurred to him. Booth shrugged, unconcerned. "I'll be ready."

The faint sound of sirens floated in the air as police vehicles converged in the street beneath them. Brennan went to the edge of the rooftop and looked over. After studying the scene for a few minutes, she turned back with a resigned sigh.

"We're going to miss dinner again, aren't we?"

"Looks that way."

Booth chuckled as he closed up the rifle case and hitched the strap up on one shoulder. Once again, it seemed as if fate was conspiring against them but oddly enough, he found himself strangely content. Instead of driving a wedge between them, the heated argument on the sidewalk below had shown Brennan's faith in him, and cleared away his own fear and misgivings, and the touch of her lips against his in that one hard, blazing kiss lingered in memory. For the moment, it was enough.

He held out his hand. "Come on. Maybe we can find a hot dog cart that's still open."

Brennan placed her fingers in his without hesitation and allowed him to lead her toward the doorway that would take them off the roof.

"I am not eating a hot dog. Do you know how they're made?"

"Nope, and I don't want to know."

"They're formed from the by-products of . . ."

"Not listening. Lalalalalalala . . ."

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_I couldn't resist putting a guitar in Parker's hands again. Sorry/not sorry. :-)  
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_Thanks for reading!_


	21. Playing With Fate

_There's a reason "Unseen" is the only 'case-fic' story I've written. I'm not good at them and I don't like them. Thankfully, I have the episodes from the last half of S6 to use for this story, otherwise I'd be in major trouble. For this chapter, I'm giving myself a break and going back to what I enjoy most - sweet, funny, fluffy romance. Brennan deserves to be romanced, don't you think?_

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The attempted murder of a cop - dirty or not - and his threatening visit to Booth's home put Jacob Broadsky at the top of the FBI's Most Wanted list. Booth's team was enlarged by a dozen members as time, resources, and money were thrown into the effort to find the ex-sniper and bring him in before he could kill again. His entire life was laid open for scrutiny. Overtime restrictions were thrown out the window; agents arrived at work before dawn and stayed long after the sun had set.

As leader of the team, Booth was neck-deep in their work, and spent so much time in his office that he took to having his dry cleaning delivered so he could be guaranteed a fresh change of clothes if he slept there. He made time to see Parker - now the coolest kid in school, thanks to his new bodyguard - and he made time to see Brennan. But brief coffee breaks and lunch hours pared down to only enough time to wolf down a sandwich weren't enough, so he made plans to pull himself free of the investigation for an entire evening.

The platform was empty when he strolled into the Jeffersonian one cold afternoon. When Brennan's office proved to be just as deserted, he detoured in Cam's direction.

"Where's Bones?"

Buried in a mountain of paperwork, she didn't hear him. It took another louder attempt before he got her attention. She glanced up with a frown that only partly disappeared when she saw who it was. "Oh, hey. Sorry, I'm working on the budget for next year. With the increase in funding, we can - -"

"I'm looking for Bones." He didn't apologize for interrupting her. "Do you know where she is?"

"She's in Limbo with a group of . . ." Cam was left talking to empty space when Booth simply pivoted on his heel and walked away. She turned back to her computer, rolling her eyes and muttering to herself with ill humour. "Thanks, Cam. Appreciate the help, Cam. You're the best, Cam."

In a building dedicated to the dead, bone storage - Limbo - had the highest creep factor, at least as far as Booth was concerned. Colder than the rest of the facility, the open space in the middle of the room was surrounded by walls made from rows of boxes stacked floor to ceiling, at the end of a long hallway lined with more of the same, and all of them filled with bones. Lit from above and behind with an eerie white light, the remains inside each box were macabre shadows connected, he was sure, to the ghosts that haunted the room.

The murmur of voices drifted toward him before she came into view. Brennan's was obvious enough, and the others were soon explained when he saw a group of students gathered around a table where a skeleton had been laid out with anatomical precision. Wearing identical white coats, they studied the remains as if the ancient bones might jump up from the table at any minute. A new class, Booth surmised, and after one quick glance, dismissed the entire lot from his mind. Brennan would choose the best and brightest among them to add to her roster of rotating squints, and that was soon enough to bother with them.

Although Brennan's back was to him, his presence did not go unnoticed by her students. Eyes that gleamed with appreciation for his dark good looks rapidly turned speculative when they noticed the way his appreciative gaze skimmed over Brennan. Their formidable professor's love life, heretofore a subject treated only with laughter, suddenly became much more interesting.

A sharp-faced redhead finally dared to interrupt the ongoing lecture. "Excuse me, Dr. Brennan? I think someone's here to see you."

Brennan turned; the blaze of pleasure in her smile, although quickly banked, added yet more fuel to her students' curiosity.

"You may take a 20-minute break." When she faced them again, Brennan was cool and dispassionate once more as she glanced at her watch. "Our work will resume at 2:45."

The class filed out slowly - some of them very slowly - whispering amongst themselves and sneaking looks back. Brennan waited until the hallway was empty, needlessly resettling the bones of the skeleton's right arm until their audience was completely out of view.

"I wasn't expecting to see you today. Have you found Broadsky?"

Booth stuffed his hands in his pockets and shook his head. "No, he's gone to ground. Probably holed up somewhere while his injuries heal."

Unconsciously mimicking his pose, Brennan's hands went to the pockets of her lab coat, too. "Oh. Then why are you here?"

Booth took a moment just for the pleasure of looking at her. She wore a blouse of soft grey under the ubiquitous navy coat and with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, the fringe of bangs across her forehead was just long enough to sometimes catch in her lashes when she blinked. The effect was mesmerizing. He took a step closer.

"Well, I'm not here to ask you to have dinner with me."

A small groove appeared between her eyebrows, betraying both disappointment and confusion. "Alright."

As if pulled toward her by an invisible, slowly tightening wire, he took another step. His husky voice dropped even lower, deepening the air of intimacy that surrounded them. "You know, because the last few times we tried to make plans . . ." The words faded away.

Brennan nodded, thinking she understood at last. "Broadsky."

With one more step, barely two feet separated them. He could smell her perfume, and knew from the way her nostrils flared, she'd picked up the scent of his aftershave.

"Right. It's like someone's playing with us." When Booth's hands waved vaguely in the air above his head, Brennan looked up toward the ceiling.

"Someone in Archives?"

The literal interpretation of his gesture made him smile. "No, the universe." He leaned in, close enough now to see the silver flecks in her eyes disappear when her pupils dilated. "It's laughing at us," he whispered.

She laughed, too, a breathy sound that caused his smile to widen even further. "You mean God."

"Definitely not. God's on my side."

Thoroughly enjoying himself, Booth folded his arms over his chest and leaned one hip against the table. The pose drew her attention to the width of his chest and the heavy muscles bulging out beneath his sleeves. Now it was Brennan who inched closer.

"Oh, He is?"

"Absolutely," he drawled. "So, I'm not here to invite you anywhere. Me, on the other hand, I'm going to grab something to eat later on. Remember that fusion place in Old Town Alexandria?"

Brennan's confusion returned. "You hate that restaurant. You said fusion cuisine was just a way to take two foods no one liked and turn them into one dish no one would eat."

Booth's head dipped in a smug little nod. "I was right, too, because it went out of business. There's a new place there now, some restaurant called Blue. It's got a house band and everything. I read about it in Sunday's paper. I thought I'd drop in tonight, see what the fuss is all about. Tonight," he repeated significantly. "Eight o'clock."

"That sounds . . . nice."

It was obvious the murky hint Booth was offering sailed over her head. Amusement showed behind his eyes when his gaze captured hers and held it. "So that's where I'll be. Tonight. At eight o'clock."

"Yes, I heard you . . . Oh!" The minute her active brain clicked on the hidden message, he laid a finger over his mouth then pointed it toward the ceiling. She glanced up and back at him with an impish gleam of mischief. "How . . . coincidental. I was also planning on having dinner at . . . Blue?" He nodded. "Yes, I was planning to dine at Blue. Tonight. At eight o'clock."

She looked so proud of herself, Booth had to resist the urge to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless. "Really? Wow, that is a coincidence. I'll probably head that way around 7:15."

"7:15?"

"Uh huh." His shoulders rose in a casual shrug. "I probably won't swing by your place."

The mischievous gleam returned. "Well then, I probably won't be waiting."

"So it's settled then." Booth was more than pleased with the results of the afternoon's work. He straightened, and with his hands linked behind his back, rocked forward on his toes and spoke to the ceiling. "We are not having dinner tonight."

Brennan glanced up briefly, too. Her lips were pursed with the effort to hold back laughter. "No. I mean, yes. We are not having dinner tonight."

"Good." After another gesture meant to say, _Shhhh, the universe might be listening_, he winked and squeezed her fingers, and left her smiling as he sauntered off whistling a jaunty tune.

The banished students were gathered in a clump at the end of the hallway. Booth ignored them but sent a grin brimming with satisfaction toward Angela and Hodgins, who stood talking just beside the platform.

"Jack. Angela, you look beautiful. Pregnancy agrees with you."

Their open-mouthed stares followed him as the sliding doors opened and closed behind him.

"What was that all about?"

Before Hodgins finished the question, Angela was already pushing through the class who'd just been called back to bone storage.

"Excuse me . . . excuse me . . . pardon me . . . Pregnant woman, coming through." When she reached the end of the hallway, she held off the advancing students with a raised hand that practically dared them to come any closer. "Five minutes," she said, then turned back to Brennan with an air of determination. "Booth just walked out of here looking like a Disney prince about to break into song. What's going on?"

Brennan seemed almost as happy as the departed agent. "He was here to not invite me to dinner tonight. The grammar in that sentence is suspect but . . . that's why he was here."

Angela shook her head as if to clear the cobwebs. "What?"

"Our last few attempts to spend time together outside the normal workday have been interrupted," she explained. "Most recently by Jacob Broadsky's crime spree. Booth thinks someone is laughing at us."

When she pointed up, Angela unknowingly made the same mistake Brennan had earlier. "Someone in Archives?"

"That's what I thought," Brennan said quickly, "but he meant the universe. He thinks the universe is laughing at us, so he wasn't here to ask me to have dinner with him. Tonight. At eight o'clock. In Alexandria."

As understanding dawned, Angela smiled and shook her head. "I get it. I mean, I don't get it, but I get it. You know, when he's not being an idiot, Booth is kinda cute." She turned to wave at the students waiting in the hallway. "You can have your teacher back now, I'm done." Before leaving, she managed one last aside. "I'm going to want a full report, you know that, right?"

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Booth knocked on her door that evening at 7:15 on the dot. When it opened, the witty quip he'd rehearsed on the drive over promptly fled, leaving him open-mouthed and speechless.

She wore red, a swath of delicate silk capped by a wide band of sheer lace that started low enough on the bodice to reveal a tantalizing swell of cleavage before it spread across her shoulders and down her arms in long sleeves that ended in points over her wrists. Her hair was loose, styled with the bangs pushed to the side and the ends flipped up in curls that rested on her neck.

"Wow." His gaze slid down the long length of her legs, shown to advantage by the swish of red that ended just above her knees, and back up. "You look stunning."

Pleased with his reaction, her eyes ranged over the width of his shoulders with equal appreciation. "Thank you. I could say the same for you."

He wore black, with a crisply starched shirt in icy blue left open to show off the strong lines of his throat. Except for the missing tie, the look wasn't much different from how she always saw him, but his face was smooth and freshly shaved and his hair was still damp from the shower - and it wasn't just another day at the office. They had both taken extra pains with their appearance and each had etched the day's date into memory.

Booth reached for her hand; when his fingers curled around hers, a tingle of warmth spread out from the contact. "Thanks for not having dinner with me tonight."

The tongue-in-cheek remark brought a sparkle of laughter to Brennan's face. "Thank you for not inviting me to have dinner with you tonight."

Her enjoyment of his playful repartee was almost childlike, and filled him with a determination to see more of this rare, private side of Temperance Brennan. He let go of her fingers and offered her the crook of his elbow. "The reservations I didn't make are for 8:00, so come on. Let's not find out if this place lives up to the hype."

The drive to Alexandria wasn't a long one, at least not in terms of driving in the District of Columbia where a simple trip across town might include a back-up on the Beltway or a traffic snarl over one of the bridges that crossed the Potomac River. They were used to such commonplace occurrences, however, so the miles passed without notice, filled by easy conversation laced with an electric anticipation of the night ahead. Halfway there, Booth covered the slender hand lying on the center console with his; after the briefest of hesitations, Brennan twined her fingers through his. They held hands for the rest of the drive, until the congested streets of Old Town Alexandria forced them to separate.

The restaurant showed the effects of the publicity generated by the spat of recent articles touting it as the newest hot spot. A small crowd huddled on the sidewalk outside trying to keep warm, while more would-be patrons waited in the lobby for tables to clear. Booth's reservation - and the host's recognition of Brennan - meant they were soon led to a table near a small patch of hardwood in front of the stage where the band played. A few couples were already out there, taking advantage of something upbeat and fun.

The menu was extensive, the wine list impressive, and the couple sharing what they would remember as their first real date, extraordinary. When the music changed to allow the sultry wail of a saxophone, it seemed inevitable that Booth would put down his napkin, push back from the table, and offer his hand.

"Dance with me."

Brennan went willingly into his arms, drawing more than one pair of eyes to follow the couple as they stepped onto the dance floor. He was handsome, tall and dark and broad shouldered, and she was beautiful, and glowing brighter still under the attention he lavished on her.

The back of her dress was fashioned from the same sheer lace that made the bodice and sleeves. When Booth laid his hand on the curve of her spine, the contact of rough palm on delicate skin sizzled with heat.

He drew her close, holding her right hand tucked against his chest as they began to move across the floor. If either thought of the last time they'd danced together, under glittering fake stars laced with jealousy and death, the memory was fleeting. This moment . . . this night . . . was all that mattered.

"You dance very well."

The husky words were meant for his ears only. Booth's gaze ranged over her face. "I gave dance lessons when I was in college. Helped pay my way through school."

Brennan drew back in surprise. "Really? You've never mentioned that."

"I still have a few surprises up my sleeve." With that, he spun her out the length of his arm, then brought her close again amid a flutter of red silk and a burst of feminine laughter. Their bodies collided, merging from shoulders to knees. Booth's arm tightened, holding her against him.

She didn't protest.

Movement slowed to nothing more than a graceful sway. When Booth's eyes dropped to her lips, Brennan swallowed.

"You're staring at my lips," she murmured. "In the study of body language, that can be interpreted as a desire to kiss the other person. Are you going to kiss me?"

His fingers spread out wide against her back, covering more of the bare skin beneath the lace. His thigh nudged between hers as he brought her in even closer.

"I was thinking about it," he admitted gruffly. "But we're in the middle of the dance floor."

"Yes." A flicker of disappointment crossed her face. "I've never been kissed in the middle of a dance floor."

That tiny hint of wistfulness was all the incentive Booth needed. "Well then, I'm definitely going to kiss you."

And he did.

It took a bare fraction of a second to close the distance that separated them. Now it was Brennan staring at his mouth, studying the long, flat lines of his lips as they drew closer and closer . . . until her lashes fluttered shut at the touch of a kiss as fleeting and sweet as the taste of spun-sugar candy.

"Now," he whispered softly, "you've been kissed in the middle of a dance floor."

Eyes closed, foreheads touching, the tender embrace continued until the music changed.

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At the end of the night, Booth walked with her up to her apartment and waited silently while Brennan unlocked the heavy deadbolt. When the door stood ajar, she turned to face him.

"Would you like to . . ."

He stopped her with another kiss and this time, pulled her into his arms and made a thorough job of it. Memories flooded in, of tequila and rain and a bough of fake Christmas mistletoe, but their importance faded beneath the promise implied now by Brennan's willing surrender to his touch. Booth took his time learning the contours of her lips and their softness on his . . . and when they parted, allowing him to deepen the kiss, he learned the sweet taste of her breath filling his mouth and the velvet touch of her tongue. Her hands crept over his shoulders; when her fingertips dipped beneath his collar to brush the bare skin of his neck, he pulled her up flush against him, deliberately letting her feel the desire raging through his blood.

Just as deliberately, when the kiss ended he took a step back to put space between their bodies. As passion banked, he saw in her eyes an understanding of what the gesture meant - that the evening was meant to be more than merely a pathway to her bed.

"Thanks for not having dinner with me." The gruff sandpaper of his voice brought an answering flush of pleasure to Brennan's face.

"You're welcome. I hope we can not do it again. Soon."

"You can count on it." Unable to resist touching her once more, Booth trailed the tip of one finger along the strong line of her jaw, then leaned in for one last, gentle kiss. "Goodnight, Bones."

"Goodnight, Booth."

He walked away, conscious of her eyes following him until he turned the corner that lead to the elevators.

As he drove home, snow began to fall.

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_*sigh* I feel better now. :-)_

_Thanks for reading!_


	22. One Perfect Day

The snow that fell as Booth drove home continued through the night - and for the next four days. Originally carved out of the Commonwealth of Virginia, Washington DC showed its southern roots and panicked as the snow piled higher and higher. Grocery shelves emptied. Schools and businesses closed. Government offices operated under "essential personnel only" rules and for the few travelers brave or foolhardy enough to make the attempt, ice-covered roads snarled with dozens of traffic accidents.

FBI agents were categorized as essential regardless of the weather, and so it was that Booth was behind the wheel of the big black SUV, carefully navigating an obstacle course of slick streets blocked by snow-covered mounds of stalled and abandoned cars. He detoured briefly from a familiar route into a less well-known neighborhood lined with newly rehabbed townhouses, and crawled to a stop when a heavily-bundled figure waved from the side of the road.

A blast of cold air entered the vehicle along with Sweets when he pulled open the passenger door and slid inside.

"Good morning! Thanks for picking me up, I really appreciate it. I didn't realize they'd closed my Metro stop until I heard it on the news this morning."

Booth spared one quick glance as Sweets closed the door and settled the muffler of his scarf below his chin. The car crept forward again. "They closed all the above-ground rails because they can't keep them clear. The underground sections are still moving."

Sweets took off his gloves and spread his fingers in front of the welcome heat coming from the vents. "The weatherman said this is the biggest snowfall in over a decade."

"Yeah, so much for global warming."

The smirk on Booth's face was audible in his voice. Sweets frowned. "The correct term is climate change. 'Global warming' is a phrase used by people who deny the validity of the science behind - -"

A heartfelt groan silenced him. Booth's hand lifted in a grumpy wave. "I know, I know, okay? I already got the lecture from Bones."

Sweets' expression changed from mild disapproval to keen interest. "Oh, really. Interesting. And how is Dr. Brennan?"

The casual tone didn't fool Booth. Already regretting having mentioned her, he kept his eyes straight ahead and his attention focused on the road and the scattered traffic. "She's fine."

The curt response was meant to put an end to the subject but he wasn't surprised when it didn't work. Sweets was now fully engaged. Booth felt the younger man's gaze sharpen as he studied his deliberately-averted profile.

"Interesting," he said again. "I take it you've seen her since the snow began. I mean, obviously, if she's giving you lectures on climate change . . ."

Booth had no intention of telling Sweets about the not-a-date date with Brennan. Nor did he intend to bring up the evening that followed, when he'd stolen another hour from the search for Broadsky, picked up take-out from Sid's, and while the snow continued to fall outside the windows, shared dinner with her in a lab deserted of everyone but a friendly security guard named Micah. That dinner had ended with a kiss, too, and added to his hope that she might slowly be coming to trust him again. But those memories were private and personal, and not meant to be shared with nosy psychologists. He put a metaphoric foot down hard.

"You looking to walk the rest of the way?" Just in case the fire in his eyes wasn't warning enough, he added a growl to his voice and threw a pointed glance at Sweets' feet. "The snow will probably ruin that Italian leather but if that's what you want . . ."

As he'd planned, Sweets chose discretion over valor – and hand-crafted shoes over curiosity. "I . . . I don't want to walk, no."

"I didn't think so." Satisfied, Booth slowed to turn down a street marked by a parallel row of ice-filled tire tracks. "Just remember that, okay? I'm picking Bones up, too, and I don't want you thinking you can do your shrinky thing just because we're trapped in the car with you."

The news surprised Sweets. "We're picking Dr. Brennan up? Why? Isn't the Jeffersonian closed?"

Booth just shrugged. "She wants to go in anyway, and that little car of hers would be a thousand-pound sled on these roads so yeah, we're picking her up."

"I see."

The carefully noncommittal response earned him another steaming glare. "No, you don't _see_," Booth ground out. "You don't _see_ anything, got it? And you don't say anything, either, or you're going to be walking. And I'm not kidding." His head jerked toward the back seat as he rolled to a careful stop at a pile of snow near what should have been the curb. "Now, switch places so she can have the front."

"Switch places? But I'm already here. Why can't Dr. Brennan sit in the back?"

Gloved fingers knocked against the window of the passenger door. Brennan stood in a gap between the snowy mounds, wrapped in a heavy wool coat and scarf, smiling beneath a soft grey knit cap.

Booth was almost a blur as he hurried out of the SUV and around to her side, all under the fascinated gaze of Sweets. His trained eye immediately catalogued a change in their behavior; always closely connected, the tension that had crept into their relationship over the past year was gone. In its place was an awareness that crackled with renewed energy, manifesting itself in glances that lasted a second too long, and small, random touches that lingered.

"Why are you waiting outside?" Booth's muffled voice was clear inside the car. "I told you I'd come up when I got here. Get in, it's freezing!"

He jerked the door open; focused on studying the two of them, Sweets was taken almost unawares when two pairs of eyes looked at him pointedly. He unhooked the seatbelt and scrambled out into the cold.

"Right. Sorry, I didn't realize there was assigned seating. I'll just move to the back . . ."

Brennan slid easily into the seat he vacated. "I waited inside the foyer of the building," she told Booth when he was once more behind the wheel. "I didn't come out until I saw the car approach."

He took a moment to admire her wind-pinkened cheeks and the way the gray hat picked up flecks of silver in her eyes. "You still should have waited. I would have come up." The rumbling complaint lacked heat, however, and the smile they exchanged acknowledged it.

Sweets couldn't help inserting himself into the intimacy of the moment. "Good morning, Dr. Brennan. How are you?"

"I'm well, thank you," she answered promptly. She looked briefly over her shoulder at him before her glance slid toward Booth. "Your presence is unexpected."

Booth answered before Sweets could. "The Metro stop near his place is closed."

"Oh."

Ignoring the warning in the looks Booth was throwing from the rear-view mirror, Sweets leaned forward. "I'm surprised you aren't taking advantage of the Jeffersonian being closed to stay home today."

Brennan shrugged casually. "I enjoy having the lab to myself. I find the solitude peaceful."

"Interesting." Booth cleared his throat in another warning that Sweets ignored. "You know, the three of us haven't really had a chance to talk since Agent Booth ended his relationship with - -"

"SWEETS."

This time, the threat was unmistakable. Sweets' mouth snapped shut. Up front, Brennan looked at Booth.

"He's trying to interfere in our relationship again, isn't he?"

"I don't want to interfere, I just - -"

"Like we need his help, right?" Booth covered one of her gloved hands with his and squeezed. "I mean, we're doing just fine by ourselves, aren't we?"

"We are managing very well."

They might have been alone for all the notice they took of the man in the back seat. Despite the treacherous conditions outside, Booth's eyes strayed from the road ahead over and over, lingering on Brennan much longer than was perhaps safe, especially when her lips curved with a coy flirtation that even Sweets recognized. The temptation was too much to resist. Unashamedly listening in, he stretched the limits of his seat belt as he tried to catch every nuance of the conversation.

"What does that mean, you're managing? How exactly are you managing . . ."

Suddenly, Booth slammed on the brakes. The rear of the SUV fishtailed wildly on the icy pavement while he struggled for control of the vehicle, flinging both Sweets and Brennan against the seats and doors.

Alarmed, Sweets braced himself on outstretched hands. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry," he cried. "I won't ask any more questions! I promise!"

Booth wasn't listening. Barely aware of the car finally rolling to a stop, he stared through the windshield with his mouth hanging open. A few yards away, a row of connected metal chairs sat next to the street, half buried under piles of snow. Their bright blue paint was an eye-catching pop of color against the white drifts. His heart pounded in his chest as memories he'd thought long buried surfaced again.

"What the hell . . . Look at that! Look!" He pointed toward the window. "Look! Those seats are from the Vet! Somebody's throwing out seats from the Vet!"

Brennan and Sweets followed the direction of his finger and then shared a somewhat bemused look.

"I don't understand," Brennan said slowly. "Are you referring to that pile of trash?"

He was horrified at her choice of words. "Trash? Those seats are from the Vet!" When her face remained blank, his voice grew louder. "Veteran's Stadium. Phillies. Eagles. THE VET."

Sweets released his seatbelt with a click and scooted forward. "They're just metal chairs. How can you be sure . . ."

"I'm sure, okay! I would know those seats anywhere!" Booth threw the SUV into park. "Come on, I'm taking 'em home."

He was out of the car before he realized no one else had moved. Brennan leaned across his seat and spoke to him through the open door.

"Someone obviously discarded those seats for a reason. The snow might be concealing rust or other damage."

"They're. From. The. Vet!" Booth spoke each word with distinction. "I don't care if they're missing three legs! I can fix them! Now come on, help me load them up!" When Sweets and Brennan simply gazed back at him, he swallowed hard. "Come on, please? I'll owe you one. I'll owe you two! Guys . . ."

He heard himself begging and knew from the confusion on their faces that they heard it, too. He didn't care. All that mattered was the almost frantic need to have those chairs for himself.

Brennan caved first, undone by the helpless appeal in his dark brown eyes. When she reached for the handle of her door, Sweets gave up the thought of further protest. He sighed, pulled his cap down low over his ears and reached for his gloves.

Despite Brennan's warning, the five linked chairs proved to be intact and, except for some rusted bolts, in relatively good shape. They were also exceedingly heavy and it took their combined efforts to carry them back to the car. Once there, another problem was immediately apparent.

"They won't fit." Panting from exertion and sweating despite the cold, Sweets bent forward, hands on his knees.

Booth was breathing hard, too. He considered the problem in silence for a moment, then nodded once. "Okay, no problem. We'll strap them to the roof instead. I've got some bungee cords in the back we can use to tie them down."

With the decision made, he shrugged out of the finely-made wool overcoat he wore over his suit and snapped it across the top of the SUV. Brennan watched him with disapproval.

"What are you doing?"

"I can't set the chairs directly on the roof," he said, as he spread the coat out evenly. "They'll get scratched."

"You have blankets in your field kit," she pointed out. "You don't need to use your coat."

Booth looked at her as if she'd sprouted a second head. "These seats are from the Vet! No way I'm using those blankets! They're for dead bodies. They aren't touching my seats." Ignoring the cold, he clapped his hands together, then bent at the knees and grabbed both legs at one end of the chairs. "Little help here?"

Sharing a grimace that acknowledged the futility of further argument, Brennan and Sweets reluctantly moved forward again.

The drive back to Booth's apartment, already treacherous because of the weather, was made slower and even more hazardous by the extra cargo. Booth turned on his emergency flashers and then the sirens, and finally rolled down the window and waved away the other cars and the few hardy pedestrians out on the road. When he at last stopped outside the liquor store that occupied the lower level of his building, everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

The moment of relaxation was short-lived. All too soon, they were at work again, dragging the heavy seats off the SUV and into the lobby. While the ancient, cage-like elevator descended, Brennan studied the outer dimensions with a critical eye.

"It will be difficult to fit the seats inside."

"I'll make it work."

He spoke with a firm determination that had Sweets' eyes narrow on him consideringly. Thankfully, the arrival of the elevator forestalled any unwelcome questions as the struggle with the chairs began anew. When they were finally wedged inside, angled from floor to ceiling with their weight balanced on two legs, Booth hustled the other man out and closed the door in his face.

"Go on upstairs and get ready to help me drag these out."

Brennan stayed inside with him. She frowned when he winced as he shrugged back into the heavy coat he'd used to cushion the seats.

"Have you injured your back again?"

Booth brushed off the question by giving the seats an affectionate pat. "I might have pinched it a little, no big deal. It's a small price to pay for seats from the Vet."

"Hmm." She was obviously unconvinced; her frown deepened as the cage began to creep upward. "You should be more careful. Your spinal column already shows significant damage . . ."

Her voice faded as a loud pop! echoed through the lobby. The lights of the building suddenly went dark. At the same time, the elevator ground to a halt three feet off the floor.

Booth and Brennan glanced at each other in surprise.

"What the hell . . ."

"Hey! What just happened?" Sweets bounded the stairs to stare at them with wide eyes.

"There's obviously been a disruption in the power supply for the building."

Booth growled at Brennan's matter-of-fact explanation. He grabbed the door of the elevator and tried without success to open it. "Great. We're stuck!"

Sweets crossed the lobby and opened the door to peer outside. He nodded to someone out of view. "Did you just lose power, too?" After a spatter of unintelligible words, he shut the door and returned to the elevator. "Looks like it's the whole street. I think the grid in this area just went out."

Brennan ignored the mumbled cursing coming from Booth and pulled out her cell phone. Almost immediately, she sighed in frustration.

"I have no service."

"What?" Booth and Sweets instinctively grabbed for their own phones, only to only to get the same result. "Dammit. The circuits must be overloaded."

"What are we going to do?" For the first time, a hint of alarm laced Brennan's voice.

Sweets looked at Booth. "Do you have a landline?"

Booth was briefly hopeful, then grimaced. "Yea, but it's hooked up to a cordless phone, which doesn't work if there's no power."

"Maybe I could - -"

"I said I'd check, Mom! I'll be right back." A woman's somewhat aggrieved voice interrupted whatever Sweets might have suggested. Light footsteps danced down the steps, only to come to a sudden halt on seeing the elevator frozen in mid-ascent. Bemused, Ellen crouched down and stared at Booth and Brennan through the bars. "Oh my goodness. Are you stuck?"

Booth's expression flattened. "No," he snapped. "We just thought we'd hang around for a while."

Ellen blushed and laughed away his snarling bad humour. "Okay, okay. That was a dumb thing to say. Hi, Tempe," she added brightly. "How have you been? Mom said she saw you a few weeks ago when you had dinner with Seeley and Parker."

The sudden gleam of interest in Sweets' eyes did not go unnoticed. Booth hurried to cut in before Brennan had a chance to respond. "Did she lose power, too? Your mom?"

Ellen nodded. "I guess it's a good thing I dropped by this morning to check on her. I was headed out to see if it was just us or the whole neighborhood."

"It's the whole street." Sweets stuck his hand out for the attractive brunette. "Dr. Lance Sweets. I work with Agent Booth."

She grasped it with a friendly smile that didn't quite hide the appraising once-over. "I'm Ellen. My mom lives next door to Seeley. You look young to be an agent!"

Booth snorted. "He's not an agent, he's a shrink - and a nosy one so watch what you say in front of him. Is your mom's phone working?"

Ellen nodded again.

"Good. You," Booth's index finger jabbed in the air toward Sweets, "go call the fire department and get us out of here."

The authority in his voice sent them bounding upstairs without another word. A few minutes later, a door opened and closed somewhere on the second floor.

In the elevator, silence fell, an eerie, muffled absence of sound broken only by the muted voices coming from the street outside. Brennan folded her arms across her chest and tapped the toes of one boot against the floor.

"Stopping for those chairs was a bad idea."

The words put Booth immediately on the defensive. "What? No way. It's not the chairs' fault we're stuck in this elevator."

"If you hadn't insisted on bringing them back here, we would both be working in our respective offices right now."

"And we still might be sitting in the dark," he shot back. "Would you rather be stuck in that creepy lab with no lights?"

"Instead of being stuck in 45 square feet of elevator space?"

Booth's mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. "Point taken."

The sound of footsteps spared him further response. Sweets returned with Ellen just behind him. The expression on their faces warned of unwelcome news.

"The fire department isn't coming, at least not anytime soon."

The announcement didn't sit well with Booth. "Did you tell them I'm an FBI agent?"

Sweets nodded solemnly. "They weren't impressed. The operator said that unless you were hurt or ill, they were busy with other emergencies and they'd get here when they could."

Booth kicked the bars in a fit of bad temper. Ellen offered a tentative smile. "I'm sure the power will be back soon. Want me to bring you some coffee? I just made a fresh pot for Lance."

Sweets' cheeks reddened when Booth sneered at him. "Well, I'm glad _Lance_ is comfortable."

Brennan silenced him with a hand on his arm. "No, thank you," she said to Ellen. "We should limit our beverage intake. There's no way to know how long we'll be in here and there are no facilities if we need to void our bladders."

"Dammit." The blunt reminder of just one of the many inconveniences of their confinement did nothing to improve Booth's mood. His eyes rolled to the ceiling as he heaved a frustrated sigh. "Wait . . . There's a door up there!"

Brennan followed the direction of his gaze. "Yes, I see it but it's blocked by the chairs."

"Maybe we can move them over a little . . ." Before anyone knew what he was about, he grabbed the armrests of two chairs and pulled hard.

"Booth, no! Wait!"

Brennan's warning was an instant too late. A sharp cry of pain echoed across the lobby as Booth hunched forward, his face crumpled in agony.

Sweets and Ellen crowded close to the elevator bars. "What happened?"

Brennan ignored them and concentrated on Booth. She wrapped an arm around his waist for support. "Can you stand erect? Do you feel the pain in your back or your leg?"

He breathed in harsh, gasping pants. "My back."

"You may have strained the muscles that support the L1 to L5 vertebrae. Try to relax. That will help."

Relaxing was the last thing on his mind. The tight, burning pain in his lower back blocked out everything else, even Brennan's closeness and the floral scent of her hair as she helped him lower to the floor of the elevator and stretch out. When he was flat on his back, she insisted he bend his knees to relieve the pressure on his spine.

"Is that better?"

Despite the hard, unyielding surface, the floor was cold even through his winter coat and, surprisingly enough, did make a difference. He forced himself to smile into the worried face that hovered above him.

"Yeah, it does. Just give me a minute. I'll be fine."

"I'll get you some Tylenol," Ellen offered. "That will help with the pain."

His teeth ground together as another wave of pain hit. "Not Tylenol. Get me one of whatever the dentist gave your mom. She's been dancing in the halls for two weeks."

"Okay, sure. I'll get you some blankets, too. It's getting a little chilly in here."

Sweets made to follow her back upstairs. "I'll help carry things for you."

"A cold compress would be helpful, too," Brennan called to their retreating backs. When they were gone, she turned to find Booth struggling to rise. "What are you doing? You should lie prone."

"I'll be fine if I can just sit up," he insisted, grimacing in pain until he slumped against the iron bars of the elevator. When he was settled, he peeked at her through one half-open eye. "Don't say it."

Brennan's head tilted to the side. He noticed a lock of hair caught in the scarf tied around her neck. "Don't say what?"

"That none of this would have happened if I hadn't stopped for those chairs."

"The veracity of that statement is without question."

"Dammit."

Her head tilted again. "You're swearing more than usual today."

His eyes twinkled as humour filtered through the ache in his lower back. "Dammit."

Brennan's husky laughter was almost lost as footsteps rang on the staircase. Sweets and Ellen were soon crouched outside the elevator again, their arms full of blankets and pillows.

"I brought you some of Mom's pain meds."

"And we thought you could use a couple of pillows to sit on." Sweets knelt down and with a pillow in one hand, stuck his arm through the bars. The response was immediate.

"SWEETS! Are you crazy!" Booth struggled to get to his feet before settling for a ferocious glare while Brennan rushed over to grab the pillow. "Do you know what would have happened if this thing started moving again? You want to get your arm ripped off?"

Brennan gave him an equally stern look. "At the very least you might have sustained extensive trauma to your radius and ulna. Spontaneous amputation is not out of the question."

Their alarm was unmistakable. Sweets collapsed on one of the steps, a faint green tinge to his skin. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"Sick is better than dead," Booth said ruthlessly.

"I think you made your point." Ellen sent Booth a chastising frown as she pushed another large pillow and several thick blankets through the bars, followed by a translucent bottle of medication and a large bag of frozen peas. "I couldn't find a cold compress but my husband used frozen peas when he had a vasectomy. That should work for your back, too."

Booth ignored the scolding and grabbed the bottle of pills. He twisted it open immediately and crunched one between his teeth.

Ellen bent solicitously over Sweets. "Are you okay? Would you like to come upstairs? I'll make you some tea."

He nodded weakly and allowed her to help him to his feet. As they walked away, Brennan picked up the blankets and pillows and carried them over to Booth. She nudged him forward and stuffed one of the pillows behind him. When she picked up the bag of peas, he took it from her hand.

"I got it. You should use the other pillow to sit on. The floor is pretty cold."

"Then maybe you should have it," she pointed out. "The hard surface might exacerbate the pain of your strained muscles."

"You take it." He slipped the bag of peas under his suit coat and leaned back until pressure from the pillow held them in place against his lower back. He closed his eyes, savoring the relief provided by the icy temperature and listening to the rustle of movement as Brennan settled in beside him.

A heavy weight landed over his legs; eyes open to narrow slits, he watched her cover them with a layer of thick blankets. Their shoulders bumped when she finally leaned back against the bars of the elevator. As if she felt him watching her, she glanced up.

"We'll be warmer if we share body heat."

He smiled and draped an arm around her shoulders to draw her tighter into his side. "I'm not complaining."

The silence that fell between them was oddly comfortable, given the circumstances. They breathed in tandem, saying nothing as the sound of cars passing by and children playing in the snow drifted in from outside. Huddled together, wrapped in blankets and surrounded by shadows cast by the damp, wintry sunlight, the atmosphere was close and intimate.

"I could almost take a nap."

Brennan tugged the blanket higher and rested her head on his shoulder. "There's no reason you shouldn't. It's not as if we have a great many options at present."

"Are you warm enough?"

The soft knit cap brushed against his jaw when she nodded. "Mmmm. You have excellent metabolism. With the blankets covering us, the heat your body produces is more than sufficient to provide enough warmth for comfort."

"So you're saying I'm hot . . ."

She burst into laughter, a ripple of rich, husky alto that sang through his blood. She twisted to look up at him.

"That's very funny! I made a comment about your body's natural chemistry and you turned it into a humorous remark based on superficial standards of attractiveness. Well done!"

The tip of her nose was pink from the rapidly dropping temperature in the lobby and, combined with the sparkle in her eyes and the glow of amusement on her face, gave him a glimpse of the young girl she'd once been. The sight sent him sliding further under her spell. Love swelled in his chest, tightening every breath.

The urge to kiss her proved irresistible. He ignored the sharp twinge of protest in his back and leaned in to touch her lips with his in the most gentle of caresses. When his head lifted, Brennan's eyes stayed closed for several seconds before her lashes rose. She gave him a soft smile, then leaned into his shoulder again.

After a moment, Booth sighed and hugged her close. "Maybe we'll get lucky and Angela will figure out we're trapped if she tries to call and can't get through to you."

"I don't think that will happen. She and Dr. Hodgins planned to spend the day quietly at home. They discovered yesterday that they're both carriers of leber congenital amaurosis." When Booth quirked an eyebrow in silent query, she explained, "It's an inherited disease that can cause blindness at birth. They're worried about their child."

"Oh." Filled with sympathy, Booth nodded. "That's rough. Every parent wants their kid to be born healthy."

Brennan shrugged. "The child could be perfectly healthy, just blind. And Dr. Hodgins can certainly afford to provide advantages that most sighted children don't have."

Her logic was sound but he rather thought she was missing the point. "Well, sure but still. Wouldn't you be worried, if you were pregnant?"

"I don't think about motherhood."

The quiet words held an undercurrent of resignation that hit hard. Booth felt her draw inward and regretted asking the question. He sought to defuse the moment with humour. "You were thinking about it when you asked for my . . . stuff."

The teasing comment worked. Her head swiveled toward him. "Which you objected to, vociferously."

"But I gave in."

"And then changed your mind."

"Well, yeah, because it wasn't just the . . . the stuff, it was a kid. My kid." One memory lead to another and suddenly it was his countenance that became grave. "You know, I meant what I said when I went into surgery for that tumor. If anything ever happens to me . . ."

Her reaction was not what he expected. She pulled away from him, twisting so she could look at him head on.

"Don't say that! Especially not with Jacob Broadsky still out there."

At that moment, Broadsky was a mere blip on the radar, a minor annoyance to be swatted away as carelessly as an unwelcome fly. Much more important was the fierceness of Brennan's tone and the truth that lay behind it.

The rasp of his voice gentled. "Would you miss me?"

Her chin rose in a show of stubbornness that was all too familiar. For a brief moment, he thought she would deny the feelings he'd seen flickering behind her fear. Then she blinked, and inhaled deeply.

"I would be devastated."

The simple words sent a tide of warmth coursing through him. Only the lack of space and the pain in his back kept him from jumping up in triumph. Instead, he kept the surge of joy under tight rein.

"Then I'll just have to make sure nothing happens to me."

She stared at him for a minute longer, studying him as closely as she did the bones they worked with. Then she settled against him once more, but this time she curved into his body, laying her cheek on his shoulder and resting one arm across his stomach.

Booth tugged the blankets around them again, wrapping them in a cocoon of warmth. When his head dropped back against the iron bars, his eyes went unerringly to the bright blue chairs that took up most of the space inside the elevator. He sighed.

"You were right."

"About what?"

"This is my fault. If I hadn't been so set on bringing those seats home, we wouldn't be stuck here."

Brennan's gaze followed his. "They're obviously very important to you."

"October 21, 1980."

The top of her head bumped his chin when she looked up at him. "I don't know what that means."

Booth's eyes were still trained on the seats. "October 21, 1980. Game six of the World Series. Tug McGraw struck out Willie Wilson at 11:29 pm and I was there. With my dad. One perfect day."

"Oh." There was a wealth of understanding in the small word. The arm that lay over his stomach curved around his side and squeezed.

"He quit drinking for a few weeks . . . sort of quit drinking, anyway. Just long enough to remember he had kids, I guess. He showed up on Pop's doorstep out of the blue with tickets to the game. Pops said Jared was too young to be out that late but I begged to go. God, I begged," he breathed, lost in memory. "And he let me go. I was afraid Dad would say we had to leave early because I had school the next day but he didn't. We stayed for the whole thing. Just me and him, sitting in the stands, watching every inning. Best day of my life."

The sights and sounds of a day decades in the past came alive again . . . The noise of the crowd and the faint calls of the umpire behind the plate. The salty residue of popcorn on his fingers. The crunch of peanut shells beneath his sneakers. And the smell of beer. His father drank two beers, Booth remembered, and remembered also the anxious nine-year-old boy counting those beers, and the pathetic gratitude when the next drink his dad grabbed was a Coke.

He hadn't felt Brennan pull away but there she was, separate from him again, watching his face as the secrets of his childhood were laid bare. "And the chairs will help you remember that day."

"Yeah."

She hesitated a moment. "I know your relationship with your father is . . . complicated."

The careful choice of words earned a rueful laugh. "I guess you know all about complicated relationships with fathers, huh?"

The crooked tilt of his smile was full of irony. Booth reached for her hand and toyed idly with her fingers while he played for time. He'd learned stoicism at a young age, learned to keep his thoughts private and his feelings - his pain - hidden behind a grin and a wall of false bravado that acted as a buffer from awkward questions. The act had become real, so deeply ingrained that it was now just part of who he was.

But this was Brennan and he'd promised her honesty, and the life he wanted to share with her wasn't built on secrets and hidden fears.

"I think . . ." He shook his head and started over. "I know. I know that's part of the reason I got so bent out of shape when I thought you were comparing me to Broadsky. It wasn't just what I did in the Army. I just . . . I just want to be a good person, you know? Not like my dad. I've never wanted to be like him but sometimes . . . Well." His shoulders slumped. Avoiding her too-perceptive gaze, he stared at the circles his thumb made over her knuckles. "He drank. I have the gambling thing and . . . and the other things I've done . . . the things I've had to do. Maybe it's the same thing. Maybe . . . maybe no matter what I do, I'm just like him. Maybe I am him."

Her hand squeezing his forced him to look up again. Her brow was furrowed and her face held the same intensity she showed when they argued over a point in an investigation.

"I don't know your father," she said, "but I do know the man who raised you. If you are looking for a yardstick with which to compare yourself, I believe you would be better served if Hank Booth was that standard. He's the man you most resemble, in character and in actions."

Booth looked up at the chairs again. His father's face was still there, but now, so to was Pops. Waiting up, when they finally got home from the game. And later, when promises of "next weekend" proved to be just another lie. Pops, the gruff, dependable fixture who'd given up what should have been the ease of his golden years to provide a home and stability for two traumatized young boys. Pops, who'd taught him what it really meant to be a man.

His eyes held a faint sheen of moisture when he looked back at Brennan. "Thank you."

For the moment, they were the only two people in the world. The elevator in which they were confined hung in the air, drenched in pale, wintry light marked by long shadows made brisk with cold. They spoke in low tones, hushed and quiet, in words meant only for the other's ear. The atmosphere enhanced the closeness of their natural connection. Emboldened, Brennan took a deep breath.

"I would like to ask you a question. The other night, when you took me home after dinner . . . Why didn't you stay?"

The question surprised him but it was, he realized, another opportunity to push beyond his natural reticence and open his life to her. That it was difficult seemed to make it even more important.

"Because I want to get it right," he began haltingly. "This, you and me, I don't want to screw it up." His lips twitched in a self-deprecating smile. "I guess I've been listening to Sweets a little. Assessing my life. One thing I realized is that I've always rushed into relationships. Into sex. Even with Rebecca . . ." Booth paused, then shrugged. "I was near the end of my last enlistment and trying to plan ahead, you know, thinking about what I could do after I got out. I was looking at the FBI but I'd never finished my degree. I was at Ft. Benning and Columbus State was close so I took a few classes whenever I wasn't out on assignment. Just trying to catch up, you know? Anyway, one night I got invited to this party on campus and . . . God, I was so out of place. They were all so young, and not just because I was older. They were all kids. They didn't have a clue what the real world was like. No clue what life was really like. And there I was and I'd already . . ."

Brennan finished for him. "You'd already taken life."

Booth's eyes were flat when he nodded. "Yeah. I stayed for a couple of beers and was headed out when I saw Rebecca and that was it. Two weeks later we were living together and six months after that . . ."

"She was pregnant."

"Don't get me wrong, Parker is the best thing that ever happened to me," he said quickly, lest she misunderstand. "It was all just so fast. And when I think about it, it's always like that. It's always fast."

"Angela once described you as a serial monogamist."

"I'm not sure how I feel about you and Angela discussing my sex life." He frowned, not entirely kidding, but then shrugged. "I guess she's right. I mean, it's not like it's a bad thing. I'm not indiscriminate when it comes to sex, and I like being in a relationship. The problem is that I get there too fast. I jump, when I should go slow. When I should think things through. I learned that from you."

"From me?" He'd surprised her. The knowledge made him smile.

"From you." Holding his balance on one hand, he reached out and traced a lock of hair that had escaped from her knit cap with the tip of his finger. "I've spent six years watching you, Temperance Brennan. The way you study all the angles. The way you think ten steps ahead. The way you take your time before making a decision. It drives me nuts," he admitted, making them both laugh. "But I've learned my lesson, too, and this time the lesson is going to stick. This is it for me. You're it for me. You're going to be my last relationship, and I'm going to get it right."

It was his strongest declaration yet. He made it without hesitation, then waited for her reaction.

Brennan, predictably, zeroed in on the most obvious flaw. "How can you say that with such conviction? Your own past suggests otherwise."

The question lay at the crux of any future they might have. The answer he gave her now would be a door. Or a wall. He met her gaze and held it.

"I know that all I have right now are words, and given what's happened, you have no reason to believe them. But here's the truth, Bones. Since the day I met you, it's been you. It's been you. Even that first year, when you wouldn't call me back, I kept trying and trying because I couldn't stop thinking about you. I didn't know what it meant then, I didn't know why I couldn't get you out of my head. I couldn't admit it to myself but from the beginning, you were more important than anything else, or anyone else. If you called, I was there. If you needed me, I was there. I dropped everything for you, no matter who I was with. Rebecca. Tessa. Cam. Ha - -"

"Hannah," Brennan said, when he fell silent. "You can say her name."

"I wanted to love her, and I tried to convince myself that I did, that I loved her enough to make it work. But in the end . . . It was still you. It's always been you. It just took me a while to figure that out." He was still looking at her, with that single-minded intensity that made the rest of the world disappear. "The important thing is that I did figure it out. So now, no more rushing. I'm going to take my time. I can be patient. I can wait until you're ready. Until you have no more doubts."

"You're referring to intercourse." The words danced between them on a tingle of awareness. "I always thought we'd be very compatible."

Booth stared at the movement of her lips as visions of just how compatible they would be began to heat his blood. "Yeah."

"Making love will be very satisfying."

The husky sound of her voice was a siren's song, hypnotic and alluring, drawing him in ever closer. His own dropped to a seductive purr as every cell in his body responded to her. "The first time we make love, I'm going to spend hours learning every inch of your body."

Brennan was trapped in the same spell. Her breath grew shallow. Her throat moved when she swallowed. "Hours?"

"Maybe days," he growled. A surge of electricity that had nothing to do with the unmoving elevator charged the air around them. The pain in his back was a minor inconvenience when he leaned toward her.

Her pupils widened, darkening her eyes to smoke as flames rose in his. Her gaze dropped to the long, flat lines of his mouth. "D-days?"

"Weeks."

"You're exaggerating." Her tongue darted out, leaving a sheen of moisture that broke the last of his willpower.

"Am I?"

He cupped the back of her head in his palm and pulled her close. His mouth closed over hers. Hunger flared, ferocious and hot, fueled by passion and the desire that was always there, just below the surface. Brennan touched his face with the tips of her fingers, then draped her arms over his shoulders when he wrapped her close, dragging her halfway into his lap.

Their lips were cold, the coats they wore heavy and cumbersome and the blankets that covered them shifted as they moved, tying knots around their knees and feet and hampering any attempt to get closer. They barely noticed. The obstacles to further intimacy freed them to revel in the sensual onslaught of the kiss itself. They sank deeper into it, willing victims drowning in a whirlpool of need and want and wave after wave of unadulterated voluptuous pleasure.

"You're killing me, Bones." Her hat was long gone, pushed aside by long fingers sliding into her hair, holding her in place while his lips traveled her jawline.

Brennan thrust her hands under his coat and spread them out over his chest. The heat coming from his body was scalding. "You seem quite fit to me."

Lost in each other, they didn't hear the door open above their heads, or the quick tread of footsteps bounding down the stairs.

"Hey, are you guys okay? Are you warm enough? Do you need more blankets? I just called the office and - - WHOA."

Sweets' sudden appearance was an unwelcome dousing of cold water. He stared, open-mouthed, as Brennan slid off Booth's lap. That he'd interrupted them in an embrace was all too obvious.

"Were you . . . Are the two of you . . . So you're . . . But, when did . . . How long . . ." The uncharacteristic sputtering was a sign of his deep shock.

Booth reacted to the unwelcome intrusion with the frustration of a child denied a shiny toy. He grabbed the frozen peas still tucked against his back and hurled them at Sweets. The bag shattered against the bars of the elevator, scattering small icy pellets everywhere.

Sweets jumped back, startled, and immediately fled. "Okay, I'm going! I'm going!"

As he disappeared, Brennan gave Booth a chiding frown. "Was that necessary?"

"Yes," he snapped, then sighed heavily and looked at her through narrowed eyes. Her lips were plump from his kiss, her cheeks pink from the scruff of his beard against her skin. Dreams of having her naked in his bed and creating the same effect all over her body sent another rush of heat coursing through him. He ruthlessly tamped it down. Without Brennan in his arms to distract him, he was once again conscious of the painful stiffness in his back - - among other places. He shifted by small degrees, trying to relieve the discomfort in both regions. "Nevermind. Let's talk about something else."

Brennan was immediately concerned. "Are you in pain?"

Booth grunted. Yes, he was in pain. A throbbing, pulsing, aching pain that could only be fully relieved by the exquisite heat of her body. He looked at her without speaking.

"Oh." He knew the moment awareness struck. The smile that curved her lips made him want to haul her back into his lap when her eyes dropped to the blankets draped low over his midsection. "Our activities were rather arousing, weren't they?"

He grinned, too, amused at the tepid description of the hot and steamy kisses they'd shared. "You could say that. I'm pretty impressed, actually. Considering how much my back hurts, I'm surprised anything else works."

"Would you like me to help? With your back," she clarified.

He glanced around the crowded confines of the stalled elevator. "What, you mean, that twisty thing you did the last time my back went out? There's not enough room in here."

Brennan agreed with his assessment. "No, there isn't room for that. However, I could try a form of therapy called Thai massage. It uses pressure on one part of the body to alleviate pain in another area. Here, I'll show you."

Taking his agreement for granted, she rose to her knees and shoved the blankets out of the way. Her hands spread out high across his thigh, almost encircling it. When she pressed hard, he groaned in response. She looked up.

"What is it? Do you feel a difference in your back?"

Booth shook his head. "No, but I have to admit, that feels pretty good on my quad."

She gave him a vaguely annoyed glance. "That's not the goal of this exercise. Let me try a different pressure point."

When her hands moved further up his leg, his entire body tensed. She felt it and glanced at him. She seemed oblivious to the thick ridge lying heavy against his thigh, just beyond her fingertips. Booth, however, was all too aware of the burning heat of her touch. He held his breath as his body hardened even more.

"Am I hurting you?"

"No."

Her fingers shifted again, brushing against his engorged shaft with the lightness of a feather. It was enough, though, to draw a harsh groan from Booth that echoed across the lobby. Brennan's hands immediately flew up, palms out.

"It was an accident," she exclaimed quickly. "I'm sorry, I tried to avoid your penis but your erection is quite large! Perhaps if I shifted it to the other side . . ."

Afraid she might take it into her head to do just that, Booth cupped himself protectively and half-twisted away from her. "Don't even think about it! If there's any shifting to be done, I'll do it!"

Brennan's hands dropped to her knees. After a few seconds, she offered him a tentative smile.

"If it makes you feel less uncomfortable, I was also aroused by our recent activity. The signs aren't as obvious under my heavy clothing but my nipples are erect and I'm aware of an extra level of moisture in my - -"

"BONES! That is not helping!" Booth's horrified cry silenced her. Then, to both their surprise, he burst out laughing. He would never, he thought, never in a million lifetimes, get used to her blunt handling of the most private of subjects but one thing was clear - life with her would never be dull. His head rolled against the bars as he grinned at her. "God, I love you."

Brennan, who'd been smiling with him, turned somber. She plucked at a fold in the blanket crumpled around their legs. "Those words are so easy for you. I can't say them back. Not yet."

He picked up her restless hand and threaded his fingers through hers. "I can wait. I'm not going anywhere, Bones. I promise. When you're ready, I'll be right here."

She stared at their fingers, twined together. "You seem very sure that I will someday reach that point."

He tipped her chin up to meet his gaze. "I am."

A faint smile played around her lips. "Because you have faith."

"Exactly."

"Um, guys?" Sweets' voice, tentative and cautious, came from just above their heads. Only his feet showed on the steps outside the elevator. "Agent Booth? Dr. Brennan? Is it okay if I come back down now?"

Booth rolled his eyes at the unwelcome interruption. "No, but you're probably going to anyway."

The feet were followed by the rest of Sweets', until he crouched down to peer at them through the gaps in the bars. He studied their new position - still close, still connected by the same blankets, but a few inches apart now, with Brennan facing Booth at a slight angle. Despite the barest of separations, the bonds that had always connected them seemed stronger, and almost visible. "I just wanted to check on you. You've been in there a while. Are you warm enough?"

Booth brushed aside the concern. "We're fine."

"How's your back?"

"It's fine."

"Good, good." The gruff brush-off had no effect on Sweets. He sat down on the stair and assumed a professional mien. "About my interruption earlier. Your relationship has clearly moved into new territory. I think it would be a good idea if the three of us talked about - -"

"Don't make me throw something at you again," Booth threatened. "I'm out of peas but I bet I could find something else."

"But I really think - -"

"Well, stop. The only thing you should be thinking about is how to get us out of here. Any word on when the power is coming back?"

Sweets gave up, at least for the time being. "No. I called the office, though, so they know you're in here. Agent Brooks said there are reports of rolling power outages throughout the district. Pepco is on it. And," he added, somewhat smugly, "I've had some wonderful conversations with Ellen and her mother. Your neighbor is a delightful woman."

Booth snorted in disbelief. "No, she's not. She's a cranky old - -"

Suddenly, the lights in the lobby flickered on and the elevator rumbled to life. Sweets jumped back as Booth and Brennan struggled to cast aside the blankets.

"We're moving!"

"The power's back!" Booth stared up at the roof of the elevator as it slowly rose higher. "Get up there," he yelled at Sweets. "Get ready to help me drag this thing out!"

Brennan immediately stepped between him and the chairs. "You aren't doing anything. Your back . . ."

"I'll worry about my back later."

"Booth!"

Despite the bravado, it was soon clear that Booth was unable to help move the heavy chairs. Without his powerful brawn, it took the combined efforts of Sweets, Brennan and Ellen to get the chairs out of the elevator and into his apartment. They dragged them to the middle of the room and collapsed into separate seats.

"I hope you didn't take all of Mom's pills, Seeley," Ellen groaned, rubbing at the small of her back. "I may need one myself."

"Where are you going to put these? If you want them somewhere specific, you should probably tell us now so you don't have to move them later."

Booth stood beside his favorite recliner and braced one hand on the yellow leather as he considered the chairs and Sweets' question at the same time. "Just leave them where they are for right now. I'll let Parker help me decide where to put them. They'll be his one day."

Brennan smiled at him from her place at one end of the row of blue. "You found more than memories in these chairs. You've created an heirloom."

He seemed taken aback for a moment, then met her smile with one of his own. "Huh. I didn't think of it like that. What do you know . . . a Booth family heirloom."

Suddenly, Ellen jumped to her feet.

"Well. I'll just get the blankets and pillows out of the elevator. You can help." She grabbed Sweets' hand and tugged. When he struggled briefly, clearly wanting to stay, she pulled harder. "Come on."

When they were alone again, Booth took the empty seat beside Brennan. She watched his hobbling progress with a frown.

"You're still in pain. You should stay home. Sweets and I can make our own way to our respective offices."

He shook his head. "I'll be fine as long as I'm not trying to drag a few hundred pounds of cast iron around." He bumped her with one wide shoulder. "Thanks again for helping me get 'em back here. Sorry for getting us stuck."

Brennan shrugged easily and twined her arm around his. "Despite the inconvenience of the confinement, I have to admit that it was actually an enjoyable interlude."

He thought about the kiss they'd shared and knew from the warmth in her eyes that she did, too. He teased her with a crooked grin. "Oh, yeah? Maybe I should find another elevator for our next date."

She rewarded him with the velvet, throaty sound of laughter. "I think once was quite enough."

"Good point." Booth covered the fingers that curved around his forearm with his other hand. "What do you say we come back here after work instead? We could grab some pizza, have some wine, and sit in my new heirloom chairs. What do you think?"

Her head tilted as she studied him. She scanned his face with a softness that made his pulse skip. "One more perfect day?"

"Elevator and all." He leaned in for a kiss, only to be interrupted by a voice from the doorway.

"Are we still going into the office?"

Booth sighed and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

"What are you doing?" Brennan asked.

"I'm trying to remember if there's a bag of peas in the freezer."

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_Worst case of writer's block ever, finally broken. I hope the chapter was worth the wait!_

_Thanks for reading._


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